


ophiuchus

by bloominsummer



Series: konstelasi [2]
Category: K-pop, SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate universe - Mafia, Arranged Marriage, Infidelity, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Minor Violence, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:28:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24629320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloominsummer/pseuds/bloominsummer
Summary: When he was eleven, Minghao discovered true joy for the first time as he chased Junhui across the vast expanse of a cornfield. He never would have thought that he’d be running after Junhui all over the continent upon committing to a lifetime vow.
Relationships: Kim Mingyu/Xu Ming Hao | The8, Wen Jun Hui | Jun/Xu Ming Hao | The8
Series: konstelasi [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1716385
Comments: 37
Kudos: 141





	1. you were my future

**Author's Note:**

> while you're here, please check out these carrds for [blm and terror bill](https://forjusticeforpeace.carrd.co/), as well as [plm](http://weneedtotalkaboutpapua.carrd.co).
> 
> happy birthday my moon!
> 
> this work is set in the same universe as [andromeda](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22953529) and while i do intend to make it readable as a standalone piece, there's no guarantee that will be the case until i finish all the chapters, so just a heads up on that hehe
> 
> follow the fic update [here](https://twitter.com/bioominsummer/status/1270721304614731776?s=20) <3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Caught,” he struggled for breath once they’ve both stopped running, “you.”
> 
> Junhui turned around to face him and Minghao saw a smile that became his favourite view ever since.
> 
> “Yeah, you did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warning: infidelity

_**Ophiuchus** ; “the serpent bearer”. The constellation is often associated with Asclepius, the first doctor in Greek mythology, who is depicted holding a great serpent. As it is well known, a snake’s venom can either kill or cure, depending on the intention of its use. _

_ In Chinese astronomy, Ophiuchus lies across two of the quadrants symbolised by the Azure Dragon of the East and the Black Tortoise of the North. _

* * *

The first time Junhui gave his security detail the slip, he went under the radar for almost six months. Minghao's father was completely livid. Livid in the way that his veins bulged on his temple so prominently Minghao was genuinely concerned they might burst open. 

The only thing that seemed to dissuade Xiaoming's anger is the molten gold that adorned Minghao’s ring finger. It served as a physical tether as well as an emotional one to him; it's insurance. But Minghao wasn’t half as reassured as he was. He had years to learn that what Junhui can do once and get away with, he will do again.

And he does.

Again and again and _again_. Every single time, Xiaoming was at the precipice of putting out a bounty on his head and Minghao had to talk him down, wrap his left hand around his old man’s wrist to subtly remind him of the unbreakable connection Junhui has to their family.

By the time he eventually catches Junhui in Tokyo, Minghao’s lost count how many times his husband had managed to slip through his grasp. 

Minghao takes a minute to absorb the details of his surroundings, how lively the humble apartment feels. Junhui’s presence in it is so _strong_. There are signs of life everywhere he looks—someone is living, breathing, eating, sleeping here. In comparison, Minghao’s room back at the house much more resembles a vampire lair. Only the undead resides there.

He stares outside the only window in the room, a glass vase half-filled with water placed by the sill, stems of roses arranged beautifully inside. Minghao reckons it's put there conveniently to give the flowers sunlight and prolong their decay. 

Of course, Junhui nurtures life in all its form. People, plants, animals. 

The lock turns and Junhui walks in through the door, still dressed in his medical scrubs. 

“Gē, come home.”

His words alert Junhui of his presence and the older man lifts his gaze to find Minghao’s. He doesn’t look that all that startled to find a ghost of the past standing in the middle of his living room. If anything, Minghao is more surprised to see _him_. 

Six months feels like six years. An intimate lover, now nothing more than a stranger.

Junhui flicks his finger on the light switch, allowing Minghao a better look at him. His hair is the colour of a good, oaked Chardonnay. 

A scene flashes before Minghao’s eyes, one of him running his fingers through Junhui’s locks, though the shade is much darker in his memory. It’s jet-black, like a night without stars, or how the universe was before God decided to create light. All tangles and knots and frizzes and Minghao pried them apart one by one until he could comb through them perfectly, Junhui fast asleep in his lap on their way back from the orphanage. 

The Junhui in his recollection— _that_ Junhui would have come home with him the moment he asks. That Junhui would have never left in the first place.

_This_ Junhui fixes his eyes on Minghao, gives him a sharp huff before he says, “Sure, in a body bag.”

Minghao sighs. “Why must you be so difficult all the time?”

It’s not the question he desperately wants to ask. In truth, it’s this: _why do you run when you know you’re tugging at the string connecting us two, dragging my heart on the ground behind you wherever you go? It’s chafed, torn,_ scarred _._ But if there is one thing Minghao is certain about right now, standing across the room from Junhui who is shrugging off the ugly-green uniform from his body, exposing the younger to the defined muscles of his back _,_ is that he’d take the answer to that question with him to his grave.

There is no point in asking. 

“Maybe because I’m married to a criminal.” 

Junhui tosses the crumpled fabric into the laundry basket in the corner of the room.  He walks to his wardrobe and rummages through it, trying to find something to wear to bed. 

Minghao takes a step toward him. Careful, gentle. He doesn’t want to spook Junhui into leaving before he can convince him to return home. 

There’s a plane waiting for them in Haneda, Minghao wants to tell him. All Junhui has to do is take the hand Minghao is extending toward him.

The last time he did so, they were getting married. It’s a precious memory to Minghao, one he grounds himself on when the nights grow too dark and silent, when the space next to him on his bed becomes too empty, when Junhui's absence makes his heart bitter instead of fond. 

Perhaps it’s different for Junhui.

It must be different for Junhui. They both cried on that day, on the little slope of the outdoor chapel with endless green hills behind them, their fingers intertwined as the officiant spoke the words they were meant to repeat. Minghao went first and Junhui followed obediently after him. _Obedient_ being the right word for it, he understands that now, because it was done out of obligation more than anything else. 

When Junhui kissed him that day on that slope, with the wind drying their tear-streaked cheeks, his lips had tasted like goodbye. Minghao didn’t know he meant it as a farewell until Junhui’s body wasn’t pressed against his the next morning, though the evidence of his orgasms still lingered heavily on their sheets. Minghao's room smelled like sex for the next three days because he didn’t let anyone in to rid the evidence that Junhui was ever there.

Xiaoming had applauded him after for putting on a good show—for grieving his husband’s departure _properly_. Minghao shrugged off the hand that rested on his shoulder and told him he didn’t need to put on a show to mourn Junhui. The surprise had been evident across his father’s features and he imagined it was mirrored on his own face. 

Minghao’s the loyal son. Always has been, always will be. In his life, he’s never raised his voice nor his fists against his father before that day, but he did raise one and he wanted so badly to raise the other. 

In the end, he didn’t. No good would come out of striking Xiaoming down. Not for Junhui, not for him. 

Junhui closes the wardrobe door loud enough to wake his neighbours. Minghao suspects it’s an indirect request for him to exit the premises. 

“You work with criminals every day.”

That much is true. Junhui is smart enough to know that lodging a proper medical license application with the local officials will immediately alert the Xu group of his current location, so he keeps mostly to himself. He chooses to work in the shadows, lurking in the dark for anyone in need of his services. 

Members of influential crime families are willing to pay good money to be treated by his skilled hands, which gives Junhui time to commit to pro bono work in his private time. It's a boomerang, really, a result Xiaoming's arrogance. He'd shown off Junhui's talent with a scalpel even before he'd gotten his degree, letting his so-called protégé treat certain people if and only if, at the end of the day, it would benefit him and the family business. Hadn't it been for that conceited behaviour, people in their line of work might not be aware of Junhui's existence, much less know to come to him when they need to.

Now Xiaoming needs to stand aside and watch one of his greatest assets hand out his services for a thousand times less than the price he's put on him.

“And?” Junhui's voice breaks Minghao out of his reverie. The older pulls an old, washed-out sweater from the wardrobe and then over his head. “You’d rather I let them die than accept that my hatred for you is simply due the fact that you are you?” He fixes the hem and straightens up, staring at Minghao blankly.

“I can’t keep doing this.” If he sounds like he’s begging, it’s because he is. “Chasing after you like a madman.”

“Then stop.”

“You know I can’t do that, either.”

Junhui throws himself on the bed. 

It’s the first time the gesture comes without an invitation for Minghao to join him. He rests his head on the pillow and closes his eyes, fingers coming to clasp together above his stomach.

“Where are you spending the night?” asks Junhui, voice thin. 

He’s exhausted, Minghao can tell, almost completely depleted of his energy reserve. Knowing how much Junhui loves to overwork himself to the point of exhaustion for the good of others, he probably just pulled overtime or a double-shift at the free clinic around the corner. Minghao loves him like this. There’s so much good in one strand of his hair, it’s almost enough to undo all of the bad Minghao’s committed. 

“I’ll find a place.” 

Without opening his eyes, Junhui points somewhere to Minghao’s left. “You can have the couch if you want.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

Since he could use a good rest himself, Minghao takes his offer without any suspicion, thinking he can always pick up the fight in the morning and coax Junhui into an agreement. What a foolish assumption he's made. He has absolutely no clue as to what Junhui has in store for him.

It’s to have him wake up in the morning in an empty room, an empty apartment, a note next to the coffee machine saying _don’t look for me_ and Junhui’s wedding ring used as paperweight above the pale papyrus. The roses by the windowsill have withered sadly, petals scattered over the floorboard, although Minghao could have sworn the flowers were alive just the night before.

Junhui does nurture all form of life and Minghao wonders if the reason he feels dead inside is that Junhui’s left him.

🌙

After Tokyo, Junhui isn’t as hard to track down, but he remains agile enough to fall off the grid when he wants to. A failed second and third attempt to ask Junhui to come home had his father telling him to give up hope in having Junhui return to their midst. 

“Let him be,” he decided. “As long as we have eyes on him.”

_As long as he is under our control_. 

Minghao wanted to scream. All it would take is one deal to go awry for Junhui to get hurt beyond all the help this world can offer him. While that’s a risk Xiaoming seemed willing to take, Minghao is less than reluctant. With Junhui—he doesn’t take chances.

Sometime in the middle of Junhui’s fifth and sixth disappearance, Minghao came across Kim Mingyu in one of his business meetings. Every day since he wonders whether it was a blessing or a curse that he was thrown into Kim Mingyu’s path. Or maybe that Kim Mingyu was thrown into his instead.

In any case, Minghao fell for the boy with the bright eyes and high spirits. The boy who never seemed to run out of easy smiles to offer everyone in his proximity, lacking an ounce of discrimination.

A contrast to Junhui’s moon, Kim Mingyu is a sun. 

Beautiful, bright, and blinding.

Minghao fell like a fallen angel whose wings were clipped. To him, it felt like Junhui is the one holding the scissors, leaving his back all bruised and bloodied in the process. 

He returned Junhui’s ring the next time he finds him again after Tokyo, sitting alone on a park bench in central Hanoi, eating his lunch _banh mi_. Junhui had taken the ring from him with careful fingers and Minghao counted it as a win. 

There were no exchanged words between them, just a silent understanding. He left Junhui where he found him and walked away without looking back. Though in his mind he’d imagine Junhui watching him go, he supposed he wouldn’t know if he actually did. 

Come next morning, his men informed him that Junhui had gone about his daily schedule without any erratic changes. It didn’t seem like he had planned on disappearing any time soon, they had reported to him. Minghao ended the call and stared at the wall until a maid came knocking at his door with his morning tea. 

And Junhui stayed for two more months in Hanoi. 

In the days leading up to his disappearance, he was seen wearing his wedding ring again.

Minghao, on the other hand, takes his off when he pays Mingyu a visit. 

The nights when Mingyu holds him are the nights Minghao leans toward it being a blessing that they’ve met each other. He makes a point of keeping his eyes open the entire time Mingyu is thrusting into him, stares into Mingyu’s brown orbs and returns his heady gaze. 

His body thrums with want in Mingyu’s embrace, want he’s never felt toward another soul that isn’t Junhui. They often take a warm bath together after they make love and Minghao isn’t washing away his sins, he’s repenting them instead. He lets Mingyu lather his skin with tangerine-scented soap and wash his hair gently, tender fingertips pressing against his scalp. 

He doesn’t push all thoughts of Junhui down to the deepest recesses of his mind like he probably should. He doesn’t replace Mingyu’s form with his husband because he knows the person he’s letting have their way with him isn’t the one his red string is tied to. 

For the sake of his sanity, Minghao simply allows the two of them to exist simultaneously. One’s existence does nothing to eliminate the other’s, one’s presence does not downplay the pull the other has on Minghao. There is a throne for them to share in his heart; they sit on it like kings from the old days. 

Later, when Mingyu is asleep next to him, an arm slung protectively across Minghao’s middle and face tucked into the crook of his neck, he thinks he’s a hypocrite for telling himself all that and still not have the courage to wear Junhui’s gold when he holds Mingyu’s hand.

🌙

There was a small stretch of time after Hanoi until Junhui pops up on the radar again, this time in Jakarta. 

Minghao doesn’t go to see him in the four months he spends there. _If only he’d stay longer,_ Minghao thinks quietly, but he knows that deep down he doesn’t have any intentions of visiting Junhui. The constant rejections weigh down on him, he needs time to heal, being with Mingyu is a step toward that healing process—these are all _excuses_. In all honesty, Minghao doesn’t know if he won’t break down at the mere sight of his husband. 

He might do something stupid, like prostrate himself at Junhui’s feet and beg for his forgiveness. It’d be a disservice to Mingyu for him to do so—an unfair treatment that isn’t befitting to the affection Mingyu has showered him in. Minghao is not ashamed of what they have, but as it stands there are already so many things he has to ask Junhui’s forgiveness for and it’ll be all too easy to add Mingyu to the list.

Sometimes he’ll go out to the back porch and sits there only to recall the vow they swore to each other.

_To have and to hold._

When’s the last time Junhui’s held him? Even casting a glance in Minghao’s direction seems to cause him pain. 

_For better or worse._

A joke, one that isn’t even remotely funny. There has been no _better_ and everything Minghao does seem to only make things worse.

_To love and to cherish_.

Minghao tried, with God as his witness, he’s tried.

_Till death do us part._

Bruised and battered, still this is one part he intends to keep.

It’s truly a shame. Under Jakarta’s scorching sun Junhui would have thrived, his skin glowing bronze, kissed everywhere by the heat. Minghao would have loved to see him there, loved the way he fits right in those places, how he makes them belong to him and not the other way around. He would have loved to see him speak the local language, stumbling awkwardly over his words while trying his best to keep up with the conversation. Language has always been Junhui's favourite subject, after all. 

Back when things were simpler, he'd teach Minghao his foreign words that don't have a direct translation in Mandarin and murmur their meanings onto his nape while he held the younger tight in his arms.

Minghao’s heart aches at the recollection and he thinks about ripping it out of his chest just to get the pain to stop.

🌙

“Young Master, your father wants to see you.”

His room is pitch black with the windows shut, so the light that comes from the slight opening of the door is practically blinding to Minghao. He takes a deep breath and wonders what time it is, remembers having dinner and lunch together in one meal before he slept but no clue as to how long he’s been in slumber. If he’s lucky, a day wouldn’t have gone by wasted. There have been too many days wasted, time is nothing but sands slipping through his fingers. The tighter his hands are around it, the more it spills all over. 

“Yes.” He sounds as though his voice box is mangled. “Let me get dressed.”

“I shall wait for you in front.”

The door closes again and the darkness returns. Minghao inhales, exhales, inhales, exhales. His phone says it’s a little after midnight—so he hasn’t slept through the sunrise. Good. Xiaoming wants to see him at this hour. Not so good there, it might even be bad. There is only one matter Minghao can think of that would require his immediate attention: Junhui.

If it had been a problem with the business, there are other lieutenants to summon. People higher up in the chain of command the leader would go to instead of Minghao, who is green and inexperienced in getting his hands dirty despite his years growing up smack in the middle of everything. 

The servant that came for him leads the way not to his father’s bedroom but his office, where he hosts his friends and enemies alike for a cup of tea. Some he puts sugar in, others poison. When Minghao walks in, there is a cup waiting for him on the table, newly brewed by the steam coming off the surface of the brownish liquid. Does it have sugar or poison in it?

“Father?”

He gestures for Minghao to take the seat opposite to him.

Minghao does.

“Junhui has been spotted in the Wang group's compound.”

His heart drops to his stomach. “Which compound?” 

Fuck, fuck, _fuck,_ Minghao’s head chants. The chanting grows louder and louder until there’s a hammer knocking at the inside of his skull. 

This is what he gets for not going to see Junhui regularly even though he is aware of his current location. Now Junhui is acting up, lashing out like a kid whose parents haven’t given them enough attention, and Minghao will have to pay the price. God. How in the hell is he going to get both of them out of this situation with all their limbs intact?

“Hong Kong base.” Xiaoming brings his cup to his lips and takes a small sip, but his hands are shaking. Anger, perhaps. Junhui had just performed an act of disobedience which Minghao knows fully well will not be tolerated. “Go there and retrieve him.”

“I can’t.”

The hands stop shaking; the grip around the cup tightens until his knuckles are as white as bone. Minghao reaches for his cup. Poisoned or not, he takes a gulp. His throat is instantly on fire and his tongue will be numb for the rest of the week, but the jasmine that floods his senses manage to calm the thunders crackling inside his head. 

“What do you mean, you _can’t_?”

“I can make him reconsider his decision,” Minghao breaks down gently, eyes downcast to his cup, “but if I force him to come home he will kill me before he kills himself.”

His father fixes his gaze on him and Minghao has no choice but to lift his head to return it. He hopes whatever emotion is playing in his eyes doesn’t betray him. He needs to play his cards carefully—there isn’t many of them he can toss on the table to begin with.

“Very well, do what you think is best.”

His years of following orders down to the letter without as much as a word in protest might have something to do with Xiaoming’s ease in accepting his explanation. For this instance alone, he’s grateful to have kept his head down for his entire life, since it all amounts to stopping a bullet from being put through Junhui’s head the next time the Xu’s get a hold of him. Minghao breathes a little easier and finishes the rest of his tea before he excuses himself.

It isn’t until he’s back in his room that his legs give up from under him. His shadow mocks him for his weakness as Minghao slide down the wall, buries his face in his hands and screams into his palms. 

🌙

Getting to Junhui isn’t as hard as getting him to revaluate his options. The Wang men had been waiting for his arrival as Junhui had informed them of the possibility that Minghao might show up to check on him. They patted him down for any weapons and took his jacket with his phone in one of the pockets, as well as the small knife hidden in the sole of his left shoe.

Junhui informed them of that, too, then. 

He finds his husband resting in a room that looks nothing like a holding cell. From that fact alone he concludes that Junhui’s presence here is entirely voluntarily—and also _necessary_. He must be an honoured guest of some sorts, because Minghao doubts they’ll treat him with such luxury for bandaging a few scraped knees. 

There is something much bigger at play here.

“You can’t take in members of groups who have explicitly opposed us,” Minghao goes straight to the point, forgoing his greetings. He doesn’t have time to beat around the bush or ease Junhui into the conversation. “They’re our rivals, Junhui.”

“I don’t discriminate my patients.” His eyes find Minghao’s, making the hair on the back of the younger’s neck rise. “The girl needs my help.”

_The girl._

Junhui is not here for the adults. He’s here for Wang Jiaer’s daughter, the sickly child the group tries so hard to keep hidden and alive for the last five years. Though they had managed to keep her alive, her identity isn’t as elusive as the Wang group would have preferred it. She’s a child, yes, but a group is only as strong as its weakest element. Not to mention the soft spot Jiaer seems to have for the child. If anything were to happen to her—

“Jun…”

He shakes his head, the gesture conveying his finality on the matter. “No, Minghao.”

“You have to remember your assoc—” Minghao halts as Junhui takes off the silver necklace that adorned his neck, the golden band at the end of the chain swaying in the air like a pendulum that captures the younger’s attention wholly.

He hasn’t worn their wedding ring on his finger the entire duration of his stay in Manila, instead he wears it around his neck and keeps it tuck into his shirt at all times. He’s hiding Minghao from the world, or perhaps he’s hiding the _world_ from _Minghao_ because everything he touches seems to turn to ash. 

Minghao wonders if he knows that Minghao hides him, too—from Mingyu.

Junhui flings the necklace across the room and the metal makes a dull, thumping sound when it meets the wall. Then it falls to the floor, lifeless, and ice grows around Minghao’s heart. Frostbites kill, don’t they?

“Take your association away with you when you go, then.”

He turns his back on Minghao and goes to sit at his desk, a book on traditional medicine opened up in front of him, the pages a pale shade of yellow as a testament of its years of use. Minghao’s eyes are on the ring, the silver metal still looped through the hole, both objects now laid barely three feet away from him. Junhui has no intention of picking it up—and no matter how hard he tries, Minghao can’t make him.

So he does it for Junhui. He walks over with his feet heavy as lead and bends down to retrieve the accessory that feels cold against his fingers and the palm of his hand. Minghao turns it around in his grip and the light catches it at the right angle, causing the surface to glint. One part mischievous, another part taunting. 

When he makes his way to Junhui, he notices the doctor’s shoulders tensing from anticipation. He must be able to hear Minghao approaching, but to a small comfort, Minghao notices that his reaction lacks any hint of fear. For all the ugly things he has in mind about Minghao, at least Junhui knows he’d never lift a finger to hurt him. Not even if it costs him his life to refuse to do so. 

Minghao rests a hand on the side of Junhui’s neck, the pad of his index finger pressing into Junhui’s pulse point. The beat is strong, as steady as it has always been. Slowly, with the utmost care possible, Minghao puts the necklace back on and secures it neatly around his husband’s neck. Junhui gives out a small sigh when Minghao tucks it back inside his sleep shirt, but that’s the only response he allows Minghao to have.

“Okay,” says Minghao, yielding yet again. He was never meant to come out of this battle victorious, not if it's against Junhui. “Treat whomever you wish.”

“And your father?”

“Leave that to me.” He presses one final kiss to the crown of Junhui’s head, the smell of his sandalwood shampoo almost entirely intoxicating, then Minghao moves to make his leave.

“Hao,” he hears Junhui calls out to him as his hand curls around the brass doorknob. Minghao pauses and waits for the concealed goodbye that is sure to follow his call. But in lieu of words of valediction, Junhui tells him, “See you in a couple of months,” as if he’d be waiting for the day to come.

Like a fool, Minghao carries around the hope those words spark within him in a special nook in his heart and tells himself to let it stay there until the next time he sees Junhui again.

When he returns home, his father greets him with, “I know you didn’t come back without results.”

“The simple lackeys he’s treating, they’re not the main reason why he’s there,” Minghao reiterates his findings. “It’s a front for his real patient, Wang Jiaer’s daughter.”

“She is sick?”

“Chronically so, it seems.” 

Xiaoming hums in consideration. There is a half-empty glass set in front of him, a brown liquid inside, though this time it’s whiskey and not tea. The stench is so strong, too strong for Minghao’s nose. 

He takes a step back before adding, “Junhui is not treating her for free.”

His father traces the circumference of the glass with an index finger and Minghao watches his movement diligently. “So, you are telling me that your husband is taking _bribes_ from our enemies?”

“It is not money he asked for as payment,” he tells him. “It’s a blood debt. Whether he likes it or not, Junhui is still my husband. Which means…”

“Our family can collect the debt on his behalf.”

The story isn’t flawless. How can a made-up story be air-tight? Minghao only had the journey back from Hong Kong to come up with an explanation that would not only appease his old man but also convince him to let Junhui walk away with this unscathed. There is only one thing his father loves more than his own children: power.

If power is what he wants, then power is what Minghao will give him to shift his focus away from Junhui.

“The Wang group owes us now,” Minghao reiterates carefully, making sure he’s driving his point all the way home.

While it’s true that Minghao would have preferred to bring Junhui back with him rather than making up some lies on a house of cards that can fall at any time, the first option wasn’t plausible. So, Plan B it is.

“The child gets her treatment, Junhui gets what he wants, and you, Father, has a favour to cash in when the time calls for it.”

He prays silently. _Take the bait_. 

The antique clock on the wall ticks. The pendulum swing above the mahogany table isn’t moving, but Minghao can hear phantom sounds as though the balls are set in motion. The rush in his ears—he imagines it’s his heartbeat, loud and thunderous, hopefully only to himself.

And then, finally—

“Very well.”

“On one condition,” says Minghao. “I am to be the messenger should the time come for you to collect what’s due to us.”

“Acceptable,” Xiaoming nods. “Good job, my son.”

Minghao bows to him, “Yes, Father,” and proceeds to make himself scarce. 

He keeps thinking about Junhui’s words over and over again that night, unable to let the darkness consume him whole the way it does most nights.

_See you in a couple of months._

Junhui returns to Intramuros after a week spent in Hong Kong doing his best he can to treat the little girl until she's well enough to breathe without the help of a machine. Within 24 hours of his return, he’s gone off the radar. If only Minghao hadn’t lowered his guard because of those words, he might have caught on to Junhui’s plan of escape.

The apartment is already wiped clean when Minghao arrived there to do a final sweep. There is no letter this time, no hint as to where he might go, no dried up roses in the vase by the windows. 

Minghao is forced to take comfort in the fact that at least this time, Junhui brought his ring along with him.

🌙

Mingyu has him pinned to the wall with his forearm pressed tight against Minghao’s throat. Tight enough to make it hard for him to speak, but not tight enough with an intent to kill. Minghao keeps his breathing low and easy, saves up his effort for the real fight, in case there’s any to come.

“I don’t fuck with married men.”

So he’s found out.

“Who told you?” he tips his head back a little bit to get the words out.

“Do you think I’m stupid?” Mingyu stares him down. Anger and disappointment and disbelief in his eyes, to name a few ugly things. “That I’ll let you know so you can go ahead and kill whoever it is?”

“I’m not in the business of killing people.” 

He’d say _you are_ , but Mingyu wouldn’t hurt a fly if he can help it.

“We all have secrets we’d kill to keep.”

“It’s Seungkwan, isn’t it?”

His name is the only one that pops into Minghao's mind. Seungkwan is the only other person who knows about him and Mingyu, so it makes sense that he'd be the one to figure things out. He's more than curious _and_ brave enough to delve into Minghao's background beyond what is presented to him on the surface. To most of the world, Junhui is still nothing more than just a protégé to his father. No one needs to know the Xu's can't control their own member, though this one married into the family and isn't connected to them by blood. Junhui's status is thus kept hidden from prying eyes, but Seungkwan must have known to look in the darkest of places. 

Mingyu’s eyes narrow at Minghao's question, but he moves to release the younger's body, arm dropping back to his side. The entire soles of Minghao’s feet are planted on the floor beneath him once again. Minghao is still trying to regain his balance when Mingyu’s cold voice cuts through the silence. 

“You leave him alone.”

“Don’t worry,” he massages his neck, rubbing the dull pain there away. It will probably bruise a little in the morning, but he deserves it for all he’s done to Mingyu. “I don’t intend to do him harm. Or you.”

“You’ve already done me harm,” Mingyu spats harshly. “Tell me. Do I look like a reckless homewrecker to you?”

Minghao looks at him, properly _looks_ at him. Has it been a year since he first shook Mingyu’s hand in Kim Jaewook’s study? It feels longer than that, though at the same time it feels like it was just yesterday. Mingyu’s grown a little bit from that day, taller and wider, his boyish charm washed off little by little, replaced by sharp features and an even sharper mind.

“Reckless? Yes,” he admits. Mingyu’s glare darkens as if he’s challenging Minghao’s statement, so he points out, “You did sleep with me before you start asking questions.”

“If you’re committed to someone else then it’s _your_ responsibility to fucking tell me, not mine to read between the lines of your affirmations while I suck your cock.”

Ah, he does have a point there, doesn’t he? Minghao got drunk and greedy on the love Mingyu gave him. Intoxicated on his reciprocation, most of all. He thinks he can keep both Junhui and Mingyu and it will all work out in the end. But it hasn’t worked out ever since there was only Junhui—Minghao was simply putting a bandaid to cover a bullet wound and he’s bleeding to death for it. 

“You’re right,” Minghao accedes to his point. “You’re right.”

“Glad we’re on the same page, now get the fuck out.”

Mingyu refuses to look at him again. Though Minghao understands why he is doing this, it still hurts. And it's not because he isn’t used to this kind of pain, but more because he's never thought Mingyu would ever give him the same treatment Junhui does. 

_Why don’t you want to look? What is so awful here your eyes are avoiding to see at all cost?_

He picks up his jacket from the floor, it had fallen out of his hand when Mingyu rough-housed him into the wall, then wordlessly walks to the door. Minghao is about to leave and never return, but when he opens the door he remembers Mingyu’s smile and how tragic it would be for him to lose that. Call him selfish, he doesn’t care, but he’s never been the type to go down without fighting.

So he turns around and says, “The homewrecker part… you’re not it.”

“What?” Mingyu stares at him, inquisitive.

“There is no home to wreck.” His voice shakes and it has nothing to do with the fact that his throat is sore. Mingyu seems to notice the shift in his tone, straightening up in his seat to give Minghao his full attention. “My husband loathes every fibre in my being with every fibre of his.”

The tension breaks. Mingyu’s guard lowers.

“In that case, why’d you marry him?”

“I thought it was to save his life. And... to save my soul," he takes a pause. "But really, in reality, it was to secure my father’s position in a business dealing.” 

These are all truths. Mingyu deserves to know as much and Minghao deserves to have someone to share them with.

“Besides, I didn’t say I feel the same way about him. In fact, I quite love the man.”

“You’re in love with someone who hates you,” Mingyu reiterates, his tone flat.

“Yeah.”

He nods as though everything makes perfect sense now. “No wonder you stumbled into my bed.” 

Minghao gives him a crooked smile. “You’re not all the bad you make yourself out to be. Trying to protect your informant—what a noble act.”

“He’s the only person who tells me the truth around here.”

“For a price,” Minghao reminds him.

Mingyu’s jaw ticks, but it’s more out of annoyance than anger. “People have taken more money from me and still offer me nothing but lies.”

“I won’t lie to you again next time.”

His confidence earns him a scoff, but Minghao knows better than to take Mingyu’s response as an outright rejection. 

Even as Mingyu says, “I didn’t say there’ll be a next time,” there is fondness seeping through his words, acceptance reflected in his orbs, the same kind of gentleness on his face as there was on his fingertips when he washed Minghao’s hair.

“Well,” he shrugs, crossing over the threshold of Mingyu’s room. “I just want you to know that in case you choose to give me another chance.”

He doesn’t push Mingyu into making a decision right away, immediately leaving the room after he’s said all he has to say to him. 

Minghao gives him time and avoids coming to Seoul until Mingyu sends him a text on a Thursday night, 9 PM Korean Standard Time. Sober and completely in charge of his decision. Minghao gives him a reply without making him wait.

That same night, his thumb hovers over Junhui’s contact number—the last known number, anyway—for a good fifteen minutes before he decides to go to bed.

🌙

Junhui is the sole illegitimate child of one of China’s most prominent politicians. Minghao’s father managed to track Junhui down to an orphanage in Shenzhen while looking for the man’s weakness to use against him, forcing the politician into a mutually beneficial contract with the Xu's. For the price of Junhui's identity being kept in the dark, he would look the other way around when illegal ships arrive and depart from the harbour in his area of jurisdiction. 

Initially, before the whole ordeal came to light, Minghao thought his father’s done an incredible deed. He raised Junhui like he did the rest of his children. Gave him clothes from the same shop, soup from the same pan, tutors from the same academy. But as Junhui grew up, the invisible shackles placed around him became heavier and heavier, until they finally materialised and took form. Then Minghao saw the cruel streak in his old man, the reason behind him buttering up Junhui like a son: to make him compliant.

Junhui wanted to leave. He wanted to live his own life free of his origins; his biological father, the man who adopted him not out of _want_ but out of the _need_ of leverage to conduct his illegal trades. 

The politician, who’s never said more than two words to his son in one sitting, explicitly disagreed with Junhui’s wish. He couldn’t risk Junhui telling the world of the sins he’s committed. The women he’s bedded beside his wife, ones he’d been careful enough to monitor after Junhui came to light, only to send them to the nearest abortion clinic at the slightest indication that they had gotten pregnant by his seeds.

Xiaoming couldn’t have that either—it would have meant annulling the agreement he had relied upon for close to a decade. 

Because the Xu's are smugglers. Thieves. Marauders. 

Transport is an important aspect of the job and therefore so is access to an open harbour for their ships to dock at. 

Sometimes, when the aches in his soul materialise around his joints, wearing him down until he finds himself curled on his bed, entirely too large to hold him and himself alone, Minghao closes his eyes and sees the day he first met Junhui playing behind his close lids.

“Is he a good man?” young Junhui asked, hands outstretched as he made his way through the field. 

Minghao, only a year younger than him but lacking way behind Junhui in height, could only muster a weak, “He’s my father.”

“I’m twelve,” Junhui told him, though Minghao already knew. “Adoptive parents don’t tend to want grown boys.” 

A breeze of wind washed over them. Junhui’s dark bangs fell to cover his eyes; Minghao’s own locks were always cropped short enough that they never bothered him by blocking his sight. He bent down to pick up a cob of corn that had fallen to the ground after ripening. Junhui offered it to Minghao who politely refused.

“What does he want with me?”

In the years that follow, Minghao wished he had known the right answer to give Junhui at that moment. He wished he could have told Junhui that he was the price his father needed to pay to get an official government stamp on the permit documents he had been after for years. He wished he had told Junhui to run and disappear behind the row of trees at the edge of the field, never look back, as there was nothing good waiting for him in the Xu household. He wished he could have prevented all the suffering to come.

But Minghao didn’t know. He didn’t know, and he told Junhui as much.

“Okay,” Junhui nodded, strangely sagacious for a kid his age.

God, he was only twelve.

“How about this?” he tucked a finger beneath Minghao’s chin to make the younger face him. “I’m going to run as fast as I can. You’re going to try to catch me, and if you do, I will come home with you and your father.”

Minghao’s pupils widened in part surprise, part fear. What if he couldn’t catch Junhui? His father had seemed adamant that Junhui was to leave with them at the end of the day, under any circumstance. Minghao couldn’t fail. He had never failed his parents before, especially not Xiaoming, and he was afraid to find out what the consequences were for a lack of success. 

But Junhui asked him, “Ready?” and Minghao dug his heels into the Earth and gave him a nod.

Junhui ran.

At a blinding speed, he went flying without wings. Minghao struggled to reach him until he heard Junhui’s laughter carried to his ears by the wind. The sound made him realise then that the point didn't lie in Minghao being able to catch him, for he surely would get caught sooner or later. Even a young, energetic boy could only run for so long before he’d need to take a rest and catch his breath.

The point was knowing that someone is running _after him_ , the thrill of making an otherwise pointless action meaningful. 

Junhui only wanted to see whether Minghao would play along with him, to befriend him above all else, and Minghao proved his intentions by agreeing to Junhui’s proposition. It was enough to know that even though he might be going to a strange place, but not everyone there would be a stranger.

The older boy’s pace eventually slowed down and Minghao pushed himself to the limit. His fingers were then curled on the back of Junhui’s shirt, _finally_.

“Caught,” he struggled for breath once they’ve both stopped running, “you.”

Junhui turned around to face him and Minghao saw a smile that became his favourite view ever since.

“Yeah, you did.”

🌙


	2. i was your yesterday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He will never fully understand why out of all the places in the world, Junhui chose to settle down in Seoul.
> 
> “What are you doing here?” he asks Minghao the moment he sees him.
> 
> No greeting, no how are you, my love? No nothing. There has never been how are you, my love? because Junhui’s never called him that ever since he went away the first time. It’s been so long, even Minghao’s bones are aching as much as his soul is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi!!! please stream this [masterpiece](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MuEU0Kd_VP4) today if you haven't. 
> 
> also if anyone's interested I'll be holding a (sort of) mini fic giveaway for the holiday season ;; more details should be up on [@blminsmmr](https://twitter.com/BLMINSMMR) in a couple of days!

At 18, Junhui was devastatingly handsome.

“Where are you going?” Minghao asked him as the older was shrugging his leather jacket on, looking at his reflection in the mirror to check his hair.

It was styled neatly, dark bangs swept to the side to parade his forehead, pomade applied to kept them in place when he would undoubtedly be dancing later. Life of the party—exactly where Minghao assumed he was headed off to in such attire.

“Out,” Junhui answered without sparing Minghao a glance. “There’s a party a couple of blocks away from here. I got Xuanyi-jiě to tell me about it.”

Ah. Minghao’s older sister was incredibly prone to Junhui’s charms, but he couldn’t exactly blame her for it seeing as he was in the same boat. Despite Minghao asking her time and time again to stop passing information to Junhui he would obviously do himself harm with, history repeated itself often.

Xuanyi’s case was different to Junhui’s. She could go in and out of the house as she wished. Their father didn’t care much for her, as she didn’t have the right pair of chromosomes for a first child. Her situation was not at all comparable to this.

Minghao leaned against the door and sighed. Junhui's habit was dangerous and though he had managed to not get caught so far, it didn’t mean he wouldn’t this time. He prayed from time to time that Junhui would grow less reckless with each day that passed, but why would God listen to Xu Minghao’s wishes? There were much better people in the world to attend to.

“Through the door?”

Junhui turned to him. “What?”

“You’re going out through the door?”

“Oh,” He grinned, playful. So achingly beautiful and unreachable. “No, the window, of course.”

“You’ll get in trouble,” Minghao reminded him.

The consequences of disobedience were real. Underneath that jacket, underneath that shirt, underneath that smile—Junhui bore the same marks Minghao did. His father didn’t hit them often, but whenever he did it wasn’t meant to break bones as much as it was to break resolve.

“Which is why you’ll lock yourself in your room and say I’m in there with you, as always,” Junhui answered in a matter-of-fact tone, then his voice softened as he added, “My little guardian angel.”

Only Junhui called him that. _Angel_. There were a lot of little nicknames Minghao coined from Junhui alone. These tokens of the older’s adoration of him are trinkets Minghao holds dear until now, along with the hope of hearing them come from Junhui again before his time in this world is up.

“Gē…”

“I’ll be back before sunrise,” he tried to reassure Minghao to no avail. “I promise.”

He probably would. Minghao usually stayed up all night waiting for him. Not on purpose, he simply couldn’t sleep without knowing Junhui was safe and sound in the opposite wing of the house. The _fortress_ , really, considering how the walls were meant to keep the inside and the outside world separate.

“Don’t go.”

Turning around, Junhui cocked an eyebrow at him.

“That’s a first.”

Yes, it was. Minghao never asked him to stay before because there was no use, there was never any use. Junhui didn’t listen to anyone or anything but the whispers of his own heart and Minghao was entirely powerless to stop him.

“Just… stay in.” That was a weak attempt at obtaining Junhui’s accord, but 17-year-old Minghao hadn’t mastered the art of persuasion yet. “We can do something fun. Just the two of us.”

“Fun?” Junhui chuckled dismissively, walking over to Minghao. “With you?”

“Hey—” Minghao’s protest was swiftly cut off with the press of Junhui’s lips on his.

They’ve kissed once before, roughly a year prior. The kiss quickly escalated to a full-blown making out session if Minghao’s half-hard dick by the end of it had something to say to that, but they never talked about it afterwards.

Junhui was just curious and Minghao was there and willing, that was all. He had never entertained the possibility of it happening ever again, but there they were.

The older boy pulled away and Minghao instinctively chased after his mouth.

“That’s the kind of fun I want to have with you,” he released Minghao’s face, which made the younger realise that sometime during the process of kissing him, Junhui had framed his jaw with those slender fingers of his. “Don’t you get it?”

He shook his head and moved to make his escape through the window. Junhui’s already had one leg over the sill when Minghao finally sobered up enough to open his mouth.

“I’m glad.”

When Junhui lifted his head to find Minghao’s gaze, the firmness of his previous purpose was no longer in his eyes. “Huh?”

“I’m glad you think so,” Minghao repeated, breath catching at the back of his throat. “I’m glad you want me the same way.”

Minghao thought that the string of events that occurred from then on until the end of the night would be hazy. His sister told him she didn’t remember hers very vividly—the first time having sex, that is. Minghao thought he’d only remember small details here and there, but not the whole thing, so it was important to recall _who_ he was doing it with, _who_ Minghao was when he was in Junhui’s arms.

He was absolutely clueless in this matter, of course.

It turned out, every single thing after the second Junhui’s feet land back on the floor of the room burned into his memory. How his steps faltered; they weren’t as confident as they were just moments before. How Junhui’s fingers shake lightly against Minghao’s neck, careful and cautious. How he looked deep into Minghao’s eyes and searched for hints of deceit.

Minghao knew he found none, because there was none, and the next sigh that came from Junhui was one of relief.

“I want to…” Junhui began, for the first time losing his direction. Minghao leaned into Junhui’s hand on his face and hoped it provided him guidance. “Hao, can I?”

He was asking for permission like he hadn’t just done the exact thing he was now hesitating to do.

“Yes,” Minghao said. “Yes, please. Gē…”

He was backed against the door in no time, fisting the front of Junhui’s shirt. The zipper of Junhui’s jacket is cold against his inner wrist, but Minghao paid it no mind. He kissed Junhui as eagerly as he felt Junhui press into him, and Junhui’s hands travelled down his spine until they reached the small of his back.

They parted with a gasp, because Minghao started to palm Junhui through his jeans. “ _Hao._ ”

“Yes.”

“I don’t have anything in here.”

Junhui’s eyes fluttered close. He tilted his head back and Minghao almost laughed at his presumptuousness. Junhui believed what was happening between the two of them would develop into an activity would require lubricant, at the very least.

It slipped out of him—the words, the implication. Slipped out _so_ easily. His guard was down. Armour discarded, sword put aside. Junhui was at his most vulnerable state.

“I have lube in my room,” Minghao whispered. A shiver made Junhui’s whole being vibrate gently, like an engine being tuned beneath Minghao’s skillful touch. “But nothing else.”

“What…” breathed Junhui. Soft, low. “What a shame.”

“Why’s that?”

He pried open one eye. “Because then we can’t do the most fun thing I have in mind.”

“Why not, gē? I’m okay with it.”

Junhui grabbed Minghao’s wrist and pulled his hand away from his crotch. He scrambled for the remnants of his composure, managed to gather enough of it after a few moments. His gaze focused back on Minghao’s face, eyes clearing of his arousal because Junhui forced it out of his blown pupils.

“This isn’t a game.” Junhui’s tone was stern, a contrast to how playful he had always been in Minghao’s eyes. “Don’t say things you don’t mean.”

But Minghao knew it wasn’t a game, he knew it all too well how there would be no going back over the line should they choose to cross it. Still, Minghao wanted, he craved, _ached_ for Junhui. To be one and the same with him in all ways possible. Even as Junhui’s grip around his wrist tightened in warning, Minghao pushed himself up to reach Junhui’s cheek.

He kissed him there, a chaste confirmation.

 _I meant what I said_.

“Yeah?” asked Junhui again when Minghao returned to his original stance.

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

The grip loosened and Junhui took Minghao’s hand in his, their fingers intertwined as they walked through the house to Minghao’s room. A maid spotted them right by the dining area, but instead of letting go Junhui just held him tighter. He lifted his head high, like he’s proud to be the one to be allowed this privilege.

Minghao smiled at the maid, for he too was proud. He was Junhui’s chosen one.

Undressing each other in almost complete silence was probably Minghao’s favourite part of it all. Before his desires overtook him completely, Minghao could still bask in every little, honest reaction Junhui gave him. He pulled Minghao’s shirt over his head and gasped softly, smoothened his palm over the plane of his chest and mumbled something under his breath.

“I can’t hear you like that,” Minghao told him, an indirect request for Junhui to repeat his words.

“I said my heart’s about to give out.”

“How unlikely,” he snorted. “You’re way too young for that.”

Minghao hooks a finger beneath Junhui’s chin to angle his face up, then leaned in close to kiss him again. Junhui’s nose brushed against his. _How sharp_ , Minghao had the mind to think half a thought.

Junhui’s jacket came off next, then his shirt followed. Minghao helped him out of his jeans, fingers as steady as his resolve. If anything, for all the confidence he effortlessly exuded, Junhui seemed like he was at the brink of toppling over the edge of the cliff. He watched Minghao with keen eyes, but it was as though he was anticipating Minghao to change his mind.

“Junhui,” Minghao called once the two of them were stripped bare. His mouth tingled with how much they’ve kissed. There were dull aches at the base of his neck where Junhui’s left impressions with his lips and teeth. “We don’t have to. I’m happy with this. Happy with more, happy with less, happy with anything.”

He could feel Junhui’s hardness against his hip, but being biologically aroused didn’t equal consent. Minghao much preferred them do nothing than something they weren’t a hundred per cent okay with.

“I want you.” His voice shook. “I want you so bad, so I honestly don’t know why I’m being like this.”

“Maybe you’re nervous?”

It sounded off, the suggestion that _Junhui_ could be nervous to the point that he’s shaking, albeit almost imperceptibly. Then Junhui lifted his face to meet Minghao’s gaze and promptly guffawed.

“I think you’re right,” he admitted in a quiet voice. “Never knew what it felt like before. To be… tensed and excited at the same time.”

“Me too.”

“How do you want this, my love?” Junhui asked gently.

“I wouldn’t know what to do if you want me to lead,” Minghao confessed to him, choosing to be honest with Junhui, “but if you care to show me tonight… then next time—”

His sentence is cut off with a kiss, deep and purposeful. The words they exchanged from that point on is kept to a minimum, for both wanted to immortalise each touch, each caress, each twitch of a muscle. They wanted to catalogue it in a book that holds the most precious of memories.

In particular, Minghao loved the way spit dribbled from Junhui’s chin when he finished sucking Minghao off. The image of him looking wrecked and out of breath... Minghao seared it into his mind with a hot iron brand.

“我愛你, 小浩浩,” Junhui murmured onto his temple once the tip of his cock was prodding at Minghao’s entrance.

Minghao understood the words for what they were: an oath.

So he declared his intention similarly, “我也是.”

Though Junhui was as gentle as Minghao could hope for, it still hurt a damn lot. It hurt like it never hurt before, hurt like it would never hurt again.

The seconds Minghao spent trying to adjust to the intrusion felt like the longest period of time in his life. Junhui brushed the hair out of his face, gifted him little kisses across the jut of his jaw, and Minghao just held him close until the initial discomfort melted away.

Junhui began to move and with every thrust, he rearranged Minghao’s principles. He’s lived the first seventeen years of his life groomed to be his father’s heir. His goal was to please his father and perform his best at whatever task the group threw at him. Getting Junhui to join their household was initially nothing more than a part of his duties, but Minghao’s loyalty hadn’t lied with the Xu group for a while. 

His lover came just as Minghao told him of this: _I am yours, I belong to you, only you_ in their mother tongue. Junhui buried his face in the junction between Minghao’s neck and shoulder and released himself, fire-hot and burning inside Minghao.

They lied in the quiet after Minghao followed Junhui’s lead and spilt white all over their bodies. Although Junhui chivalrously sacrificed his good shirt to wipe most of the fluid off their skin before it got gross, they were still sticky. Neither of them cared. Instead of cleaning themselves off properly, they just held each other. Minghao cradled Junhui’s head which was rested on his chest, watched it move up and down in tandem with his breathing.

“Young Master?” A voice from the other side of the door came to interrupt their afterglow. The door was locked, thankfully, or else Minghao suspected they would enter the room. “Are you in there?”

Minghao lifted his head from the pillow and covered Junhui’s ear before he yelled at the intruder. “Go away! I’m busy!”

Whoever was sent to check in on him proved to be quite stubborn, because following a short pause they continued with, “Is Junhui with you?”

Junhui was the one who answered this time. “Yes!”

“We missed you two at dinner.”

That sounded like an expression of dissatisfaction and Minghao geared himself up for a rebuttal. He’s just been brought to a different kind of high and this person was ruining his good vibes. Minghao didn’t want to stand for that.

Except, Junhui got there faster than he did. He covered Minghao’s mouth with his own, giving him kittenish licks before he pulled away. “We’re busy!”

The older boy didn’t start jumping on Minghao again—not right that second anyway, he’d give it another half hour before he offered to eat Minghao out, tick one more item off of the list of things to experience—but he did move around the bed in a frivolous manner. The wooden frame creaked horribly as a result.

Without seeing what Junhui was actually up to, there was only one conclusion the intruder could have come to. Minghao just watched Junhui bounced up and down, using the mattress as his personal trampoline. The springs would give up later, but in that moment Minghao couldn’t care less. Junhui stopped after a minute passed without the voice saying anything else, and when he did Minghao immediately pulled him in for another kiss.

🌙

“Seungkwan,” Minghao greets the younger lightly, making his presence known.

To his credit, Seungkwan doesn’t jump out of his seat despite Minghao’s unannounced visit. He ends the conversation he was having with the bartender and turns to Minghao slowly, a half-empty glass of bourbon in his hand. It’s barely 4 in the afternoon and already with the heavy liquor.

No rest for the wicked, indeed.

Seungkwan tilts his head to the right as he assesses the threat Minghao presents. “Are you here to kill me?”

He smiles at the line of inquiry and quietly wonders if Seungkwan ever poses a question he doesn’t already know the answer to. “We both know I’m not.”

“What is it, then?”

Minghao takes the empty seat to his left and orders himself a drink. A dry beer, Junhui’s favourite Chinese brand.

He pops open the bottle before asking, “How much do I give you to keep my relationship with Mingyu a secret?”

“More than the highest bidder,” Seungkwan answers without missing a beat. He must have prepared for this situation, then. “If there’s to be any.”

“Fair enough.” Minghao takes a gulp. Cheers to his ghost of a husband. The beer tastes like nothing in his mouth, then tastes only of nostalgia once it’s passed down his throat. “Do you need a down payment? Just to make sure you come to me first in case anyone tries to snoop around my business.”

Seungkwan waves his hand around in dismissal. “No, it’s fine. You have my word.”

“I do hope that means something.”

His demeanour is suddenly serious when he says again, “Mingyu-hyung loves you.”

Minghao knows. Mingyu’s overflowing affection for him is like the elephant in the room. It’s obviously there and it’s obviously a problem, but since they can’t do anything about it even if they choose to acknowledge it, the two of them pretend like it doesn’t exist.

To a great extent, Minghao returns his sentiments. But what Mingyu wants out of a partner and what Minghao can offer him doesn’t match. There isn’t a middle ground for them.

“I know.”

“He came here too,” Seungkwan tells him, still maintaining the same solemn decorum, “asking for the same thing on your behalf.”

Minghao holds back a laugh. “And how much did you charge _him_?”

“Not money. I wanted lessons on how to defend myself.”

Now that’s an interesting development. Seungkwan looks like a fighter, as in he’d pick up a weapon if his life depends on it. He probably has sacrificed too much to get where he is right now just to give up. Minghao had falsely assumed he knows a thing or two about protecting himself, but that appears not to be the case. He eyes Seungkwan’s proportion from the top of his head, full of secrets as it is, down to his toes.

“You should’ve asked me instead.”

“Why?” Seungkwan perks up, suddenly curious. “Are you better than him?”

From an early age, Minghao is taught a thousand different ways to debilitate his opponents without killing them. Abduction was always a real threat for him, as it was for Junhui and Xuanyi, but they were advised against leaving dead bodies whenever an attempt was made.

Minghao simply thought that was because _killing_ is never justified, but Junhui corrected his point of view. It was so an eye wouldn’t be taken from their group as payment for the one they took.

“Depends on your definition of better. Mingyu has strength and he plays that to his advantage. Brute force, if you will.”

Since he’s adamant about staying away from firearms, Mingyu is well-versed in hand-to-hand combat. Well-versed enough to slam Minghao onto the mat half the time they spared. The other half Minghao dances around him until Mingyu tires himself out, then launched his strikes.

“You and I are different,” he tells Seungkwan. “We’re likely to be three sizes smaller than our opponent and once they’ve got us in a headlock, then what? We need to be quick so that they’d never catch us in the first place. We need to use our brain and anticipate our opponent’s move before they strike.”

Seungkwan hums before he downs the rest of his bourbon. “Maybe I will take you up on the down payment.”

Minghao holds out his hand, grinning. “Pleasure doing business with you, Seungkwan.”

🌙

Junhui rarely ever makes the trip to Minghao, but on the occasion that he does, he makes quite a large ripple in the otherwise unbothered river surface.

Staring at the painting that’s supposed to the prize of tonight’s job, Minghao pays very little attention to his surrounding for. He gets this way before pulling a job, being the sentimental soul that he is despite his father’s hopes for him.

This is Minghao’s way of paying respects. Both his _I’m sorry_ and _I admire the work_ at once. Too immersed in the immaculate strokes of the brush on canvas, he doesn’t see Junhui coming.

Not until his husband’s voice come right next to his ear, an inquisitive murmur of, “Which piece are you stealing?” that has Minghao's heart leaping out of his chest.

“Junhui,” Minghao says, dumbfounded.

“So?”

He looks around. He’s being watched by the two men assigned for surveillance, another one for his protection lurking right around the corner. It’s fourteen and a half minute to show time and Junhui appears out of nowhere, decides on flipping the hourglass upside down.

For what? Minghao knows he isn’t here for _him_. If that had been the case, there were so many opportunities Junhui could have taken that are now lost. Minghao has extended his hands enough time to show Junhui all his cards.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m visiting an art showing.”

A small, static crackle in his ear. “ _Young Master?_ ”

“Everything is fine,” Minghao mumbles to his sleeve, covering his words with a cough at the end. “Hold your position.”

“Which one?”

“Leave,” says Minghao. It’s a command he had never thought he would use on Junhui. “Now.”

Ironically, Junhui doesn’t leave. No surprise there. He’s never one to listen to what Minghao has to say, especially when it comes to the more important stuff. Junhui stays rooted to his spot, eyes now trained on the painting in front of them.

To the unawares, they look like… they look like what they are when the world’s complications are stripped out of their identities.

They look like a couple, admiring an art together.

“Why?” Junhui asks. "Why are you asking me to go?"

He sounds so genuine, Minghao wonders if it’s an act.

“You can mess with everything else, but not work,” Minghao turns to him finally. His husband’s side profile has always been striking, but it’s enhanced by a gold bronzer tonight and his beauty makes something inside Minghao ache. “Do you understand? Father will not tolerate this.”

“You’re an artist. How would you feel if your work is stolen right from under your nose?” Junhui points at the piece description, near the bottom right of the painting. “It’s Renjun’s first solo exhibition.”

So that’s who Junhui is here for, the artist whose work Minghao attempts to abscond with. He must know the young man and decides to come to his aid. How did he even get wind of Minghao’s plans? Well. Perhaps in his years spent saving people’s lives, Junhui manages to charm himself some important connections.

“I’m not an artist,” Minghao gently reminds him, because even now he can’t take a hostile tone with Junhui. “I’m a forger.”

“No.”

How firm.

“You do forgeries, but you are not a forger,” Junhui says this like it’s a fact. He says it in a way a person would say that one plus one equals two. It's futile to argue with him about it. “There is a difference.”

“No one would know before it’s too late, maybe not even the artist himself,” Minghao tries to bargain. “My imitation is impeccable.”

“Then just sell the damn imitation, Minghao.”

“ _Young Master?_ ”

“Hold your position,” Minghao hisses into his microphone.

“How long has it been since you made something that comes from here,” Junhui suddenly slides a hand over his chest, resting it right above where Minghao’s heart is. It picks up its pace upon contact. “And not from here?” He taps Minghao’s temple with a finger.

The answer is: a long, long while. The last time Minghao picks up a tool to create something for himself or the people he loves, it wasn’t a brush. It wasn’t an easel, nor a pencil, nor a piece of charcoal. It was a hammer. A hammer and nails and pieces of mismatched wood—to build a house. Not yet a home, because the missing aspect that would make the house become more than just four walls and a roof is standing right in front of Minghao, so close yet so far.

“If you steal from him,” Junhui says in a low breath, “you might never see me again.”

He’s weak. He’s always been weak, because all it takes is one flimsy threat from Junhui and he’s brought to his knees.

“Father is just going to send someone else to do it.”

“Anyone but you,” Junhui tells him, looking straight into his eyes.

Minghao holds his gaze for the longest time, the fire licking up his spine growing hotter. God knows what will happen to him if he does this. God knows what will happen to _Junhui_ as a result. Minghao’s tried to save Junhui from himself once before, and it ended up with Junhui running without asking Minghao to catch him.

And that is a pain he can’t possibly bear for a second time, so brings his wrist up to his mouth.

“Stand down. Operation dismissed.”

“I’m staying at an Airbnb twenty minutes away from here,” offers Junhui once he’s satisfied with Minghao’s response. “I have the ingredients for two servings of _zha jiang mian_.”

Minghao yanks off his communication device, including the burner phone which he tosses inside a trash bin on their way out, and walks down the streets with Junhui. They aren’t being followed, Minghao’s men know better than to trail behind him when Minghao doesn't explicitly ask for them to.

Since he might not be ready to hear Junhui's answers, Minghao refrains from asking his husband questions. Once they get to the place, Junhui busies himself with the meal preparations and Minghao takes one of the empty seats at the dining table.

It isn’t until he sets Minghao’s plate in front of him does Junhui acknowledge his presence in the room.

“How much trouble are you going to get into for this?”

A lot.

“I think it’s good that you played interference,” Minghao offers him a white lie. What is the use of making Junhui worry about things that are out of his control? This much, Minghao can still shield him from. “My work has been nondescript lately, the forgery might not have been my best work.”

“You spend too much time trying to be others,” Junhui hands him a pair of chopstick, but he makes sure their hands don’t touch. “It’s no wonder you have such a hard time finding yourself.”

Is it sad to say that Minghao agrees with him? Minghao is only ever what his father wants him to be, what the family business requires him to be. A forger, a negotiator, a son.

“Someday,” Minghao takes a deep breath, similar to the one he took before he spoke his wedding oath. “I’ll draw you in my style. I’ll draw you as I see you, as I love you, as you show me.”

“Eat,” says Junhui.

🌙

Minghao takes refuge from his father’s wrath in Mingyu’s room. Mingyu opens the door for him without asking questions and Minghao’s tired bones just want to rest. He’s gathered in Mingyu’s arms and subsequently melts into the embrace, forcing Mingyu to transport him from the door to the bed.

After disposing Minghao with care above the mattress, he offers to make him tea. Minghao refuses. He’d much rather be held by Mingyu than to have his—sorry to say—mediocre brew.

They don’t have sex, although halfway through the night Mingyu takes Minghao’s clothes off to get him into clean pyjamas that are way too large for him. Drowning in Mingyu’s sleep attire, Minghao reaches out to him and Mingyu fits himself right in front of him. They’re lying on their sides, facing each other, the air between their faces warm with their breaths.

“Do you love me?” Mingyu asks amidst the comfortable silence that blankets them.

His fingers part Minghao’s bangs to the side; red-wine at the tips though his darker roots are starting to show. Mingyu twirls a strand while waiting for Minghao’s answer.

“I do,” answers Minghao.

He brings his hand to rest at the edge of Mingyu’s broad shoulder, returning the caress in his own way. Similar, but not quite the same.

“But you’re not in love with me,” he says again, noting his observation more than posing a question.

As much as he wants to make Mingyu happy, or tell him what he seemingly wants to hear at this moment. Minghao can’t tell Mingyu he is in love with him. That would be a lie, and he’s promised not to insult Mingyu by deceiving him again. He shakes his head gently and squeezes Mingyu’s shoulder as an apology.

“Are you in love with me?”

“Not anymore.” Mingyu acknowledges this heavily, like he thinks Minghao will take offence to his stance. Minghao doesn’t. He understands Mingyu perfectly. “Even if I did… it—we… there’s no chance.”

He wants to kiss Mingyu for his bravery. For his kindness, for his love, for continuing to care for Minghao though he knows fully well their story doesn’t have a happy ending. Minghao can only hope he is half the man Kim Mingyu is.

“Yeah.”

“But I feel the same about you.” Determination flares from behind brown orbs, written in the worry lines on Mingyu’s forehead. “I do, you must know that.”

“I do know it.”

“Okay,” he exhales, shaky.

Here’s when Minghao realises there’s something strange about their conversation. Blame it on his fatigued brain, but it takes him this long to catch up to the situation. Mingyu isn’t simply telling Minghao how he feels because he wants to get it off his chest, or because he thinks Minghao needs to hear it. Mingyu is giving it to him straight to clear up any misconceptions while he still has the chance.

“What’s going on?” asks Minghao.

Mingyu gazes at him and the secret spills from his eyes first before he even opens his mouth.

“Why does it feel you asked me that question in case we won’t ever see each other again?”

“I just need to know,” Mingyu admits, now avoiding Minghao’s questioning look at all costs. He shuts his eyes tightly and leans forward until his forehead is resting against Minghao’s chin. “That—that someone loves me. In one way, at least.”

It unsettles him to the core, the way Mingyu is speaking. When Junhui has plans, they’re often written in a language Minghao can’t understand. But Mingyu is a billboard on the side of the highway Minghao passes on the way home, block letters and blinking lights. It’s much easier to read him because Mingyu doesn’t hide.

So Minghao presses. “Why?”

“Hao... I can’t say,” he tightens his grip on Minghao. “I’m sorry, okay?”

“You know I’m here for you, right?” Forget unsettled, Minghao is downright _scared_. Quietly, he pleads that whoever is in charge of writing people’s destiny not wrench Mingyu away from him like they did Junhui. “If you need help, or—“

Mingyu cuts him off with a kiss, chaste and sweet. “I’m counting on it.”

The way he speaks is meant to make Minghao understand that this isn’t up for discussion. Despite his heart’s protest, Minghao’s respect for Mingyu’s decision wins over his concerns. Mingyu knows Minghao’s got his back and whatever he’s about to do, he’s certain Mingyu’s already planned it out as best as he can.

Minghao wraps his arms around Mingyu and sings a tune he recalls from his childhood. Mingyu buries himself closer and lets himself lulled to deep, dreamless sleep.

🌙

In the end, he returned home after a summon from his father. Minghao had better not let it evolve into a forceful one, because then he might suffer greater consequences. His father was waiting for him in the study when he arrived. Xiaoming spared Minghao his words, but was generous with his backhanded slaps. Minghao’s head was ringing by the end of it, both cheeks halfway between stinging and fully numb.

His sister visits him in his room with dinner. At this point, Minghao can’t feel his jaw anymore. Because he still needs sustenance but he can’t exactly chew solid food, Minghao spoons the clear soup into his mouth while Xuanyi watches and cards her fingers through his hair. An affectionate gesture Minghao gladly welcomes.

“You need to give up.”

Minghao knows what she’s referring to. She means Minghao needs to stop sacrificing his wellbeing to indulge Junhui without even knowing what’s going on inside that precious head of his.

“Never.”

Xuanyi sighs and drops her hand back to her lap. “Sometimes I’m glad I was born a girl.”

He tries to smile at her, but it hurts more to smile than to speak. “No, you’re not. You’re never glad having born a girl. You make a point to know our trade better than anyone else besides Father because you want to prove that biology doesn’t define capability.”

“I still don’t stand a chance pitted against you,” she points out the sad truth. Minghao wishes things were different in this sense, because his sister actually _likes_ what their family does—the planning, execution, and honour of a job well done. “Not to him.”

“Yeah.”

“But you’re wrong,” Xuanyi adds on. “I’m glad I was born a girl.”

Minghao indulges her, for she’s one of the few people who made his childhood bearable. Without her, he might have given up a long time ago. Perhaps that would’ve been less treacherous path than the one he’s taken to get here today, but that would mean missing out on so many things this life, as dreadful as it can be at some points, has to offer.

“Why’s that?”

“He would’ve stopped having children at me, if I were a boy,” she refers to their father, whose insistence of having a male heir resulted in Minghao’s birth despite law and policies. “It’s selfish wish, because then it might save you a great deal of pain, but... I wouldn’t have you if that was the case.”

She turns to him and offers him her hand to hold. Minghao takes it. “And I wouldn’t have Junhui, that little rascal. He sends me anonymous postcards sometimes, the brat. As if I wouldn’t recognise his horrible penmanship.”

That sounds like Junhui, Minghao thinks, but he saves his thought for himself. If he tries speaking again, it’ll start hurting soon.

“If anyone can convince him to come home,” Xuanyi’s words are spoken with conviction, “it’d be you.”

Minghao wants to believe her.

🌙

He’s caught him in a foul mood. Junhui’s just lost a patient—the blood beneath his fingernails are still very much fresh. It's not even dry. Minghao had to wait outside his door for an hour, because some second-rate local group brought in their commander with a gunshot wound to the stomach.

 _The doctor is with a patient_ , one of the men said, so Minghao sat down with his back against the wall and closed his eyes.

The door opens and Minghao keeps his eyes close. The less he knows, the better. These men treated him like another visitor of Junhui’s, which means they don’t know who he is. Minghao wants to keep it that way. It’s much safer for Junhui.

Junhui, who walks out the door and tells the audience that their commander’s passed. The bullet had hit a gastric artery. There are gasps, murmurs, followed by footsteps in and out of the room.

The sounds fade into the background and Minghao finally rises from his seat. He pushes the door, slightly ajar, and finds Junhui sitting in front of a metal table. A set of scalpels lie to above the tray to his left. They resemble a brush much more like this, dipped in red paint.

Minghao walks to him and places a hand on Junhui’s shoulder. He starts massaging the tension out of the rigid lines of his husband’s body.

 _It’s okay_ , Minghao wishes to tell him. _We win some, we lose some, we fight another day_.

Just as he’s about to speak this sentiment out loud, Junhui wrenches away from him. The chair he sat on clatters as it falls to the linoleum floor. Minghao’s hand hangs mid-air, no longer touching Junhui.

He balls his hand into a fist.

“Why do you despise me this much? What have I done to deserve this?”

“The fact that you don’t even know it is repulsing it itself,” Junhui sneers.

It’s not Minghao’s fault the man died. He wasn’t the one who pulled the damn trigger. It’s not Junhui’s either, which is why Minghao isn’t blaming him for it. The men didn’t blame Junhui for it. So where does this frustration come from? Why does he need to vent it out on Minghao?

“Tell me, then,” Minghao lifts his chin, deviance on full display, “of my crimes.”

“I trusted you,” Junhui’s voice shakes as he speaks the words. The vibration from his vocal cords reverberates down Minghao’s spine, a chilling sensation. “I trusted you enough to ask you to run with me, and instead you turned on me and informed your _father—_ the man I’m trying to _escape from_ —of my plans.”

“You know it would’ve never worked.”

“And you never asked me if I’d rather find that out the hard way with you by my side,” he spats, venom lacing his tone.

Minghao shakes his head, Junhui’s frustration now mirrored in his own self. Years have gone by and Junhui still doesn’t understand why Minghao did what he did. Why he _had_ to do it—why the existence free will is nothing more than an illusion in this case.

“If you think I’d risk you dying over the impossible dream of living the life you want, you’re—”

His husband skips an entire octave when he replies, “Stop talking like you did it for me!”

“I’m not!” Minghao shouts back. There’s probably no use being riled up like this, Junhui probably thrived from getting a rise out of Minghao. He couldn’t care less, though, it’s been bubbling inside him for long enough. Now it’s time for the inevitable explosion. “I did it for me!”

Junhui opens his mouth, then promptly closes it again.

“You had no idea what it would’ve done to me if you got hurt because of a half-assed juvenile dream.” Minghao’s chest is heaving now. It’s getting more and more difficult to breathe. “And on the off-chance that it worked, then what?” he demands hotly.

Junhui is a little taken aback that Minghao is addressing him. He’s still processing Minghao’s previous acknowledgement, it seems.

“You would have to be on the run for the rest of your life. I’d never see you again,” and that is an alternative Minghao thought was worse than this.

“Look where we are right now,” he gestures around the room. The air smells like blood, both literal and metaphorical. “They’ve always managed to find you.”

“So you did decide,” Junhui points out his fallacy, “that you weren’t coming with me.”

“My life is not my own.”

Junhui grits his teeth, his fight coming back to him slowly but surely. “Yet you controlled mine like you owned it.”

“I gave you what you wanted. You wanted to go away, but Father wouldn’t have let you leave without having a tether to us.”

“So you offered to _marry_ me?” Junhui questions, incredulous.

Minghao’s way of thinking doesn’t click for him and Minghao doesn’t expect it to. It was a desperate attempt, no matter how one looks at it, because Minghao was ridden with fear and guilt and mostly just _fear_.

To his father, Junhui is a tool, and once he becomes more of a burden than he is worth keeping—Xiaoming will deal with him the way he deals with old tools. He’d be disposed of Junhui like he would take an old car to a junkyard.

“I’ve always wanted to marry you. Maybe not under these poor circumstances, but I was being honest when I said my life is not my own. Because it’s yours. It’s always been yours.”

Minghao swallows thickly, thorns lining his trachea prickling him as he tries to speak.

“Father already knew, when I came to him. He said he wanted to see if you were going to go through with it, being the ungrateful child you were. He also knew you were going to ask me to go with you. Wanted to see what I’d do, too.”

Xiaoming said _we’ll have to deal with Junhui before he gets out of control_ and Minghao immediately stuttered out an _let me marry him, Father_.

“He knew, Junhui,” he pinches the bridge of his nose.

Minghao probably popped a blood vessel or two in his brain during their argument, that’s where the headache is coming from.

“I couldn’t risk it, because the price I might have to pay was too great. I thought after we marry, we could take it up with him again. Breach the topic slowly. With his blessings, we could relocate to wherever you want in the world, as long as we’re still at his beck and call when the group needs us.”

“I don’t want to be one of your father’s dogs.”

“Well, being married to his favourite one is keeping you alive.”

“You think I feel alive like this?” Junhui asks him quietly, and something breaks inside Minghao.

What is the meaning of all his sufferings, if Junhui has to suffer alongside him? Minghao looks at his husband, the love of his life, the oxygen he needs to breathe. His vision swims with hot tears and when the days were happier Junhui would’ve rushed to his side to wipe them away before they fall, but tonight he simply walks out of the door without as much as a goodbye.

🌙

He’s dancing with Mingyu in one of the dimmed-lighting clubs in the heart of Seoul when he catches Junhui’s figure from the corner of his eyes. Minghao can’t mistake him for anyone else, because he’s trained his mind to capture Junhui’s shadow from a mile away. He scrambles to the exit but Junhui has already disappeared into thin air.

Minghao rushes back inside the establishment and finds Seungkwan, drags the younger to the side. He asks Seungkwan about Junhui straightaway, realising he must look very rattled because Seungkwan gives him the answer without asking for payment upfront.

“He’s been here for weeks,” he says, leaning in close to Minghao so he’ll be able to hear him over the music playing. “Leased an apartment in Gangnam.”

“How long?”

“I told you,” Seungkwan raises an eyebrow, “weeks.”

“No, the lease.”

“Oh,” he makes a small noise in understanding, “a year, I think.”

That’s twice as long than Junhui’s ever stayed in one place at once. Minghao takes off his antique watch and shoves it into Seungkwan’s open palm. The younger’s about to protest because it’s not the kind of payment he prefers, but Minghao quickly tells him to hold onto it until he can swap it with cash. Reluctantly, Seungkwan pockets the watch. Minghao bolts for the exit again.

He taps his foot on the pavement while waiting for Junhui’s security detail to pick up his call.

“Where’s Junhui?” Minghao demands the moment the line connects.

“ _We were about to_ —”

“Next time he makes a move,” he cuts the man off, not having the time nor the patience for his bullshit reasoning. “I will be the first person you call. I am to be the first person you contact for any leads, the one on the other end of the line when you find his new residence. Me. Do you understand? He is _my_ husband.”

“ _Yes_.”

“Yes, what?”

“ _Yes, Young Master_.”

🌙

There was a moment in Vientiane when war wasn't so vicious that they could sit together and have a meal without Junhui gripping the fork a little too tightly for Minghao’s comfort.

“In another life, what would you be?”

Minghao stared at him and the sudden question presented before him.

“This is the only life I want.”

“That's boring,” Junhui snickered.

He cut into a small piece of his salmon and dipped it into the sauce before he popped it into his mouth, making an exaggerated noise of satisfaction after he swallowed. Minghao just watched him closely, for it’s in these moments that Junhui remained the closest to the version of him that loved Minghao back.

“What about you?”

“A farmer, maybe.” He answered as if he already thought it through before. “Isn’t it simple? I like chickens.”

“You like eating them,” Minghao reminded him gently, “not raising them.”

Junhui ignored him completely.

“When I was younger, we used to have chickens back at the orphanage.”

That detail wasn’t one of the few Minghao kept from his visit to the orphanage. He remembered the cornfield, of course. The fertile ground beneath his feet, the soft caress of the wind across his face. Minghao remembered how victorious he had felt when Junhui rewarded him with a smile after he managed to capture him. He even recalled how the orphanage looked like from the front.

When they walked to the car, Junhui held his suitcase in one hand and Minghao’s hand in the other. He didn’t look back to say goodbye to the things he was leaving behind, but Minghao did. Once. That’s how he could still picture the orphanage in his head if he tried hard enough.

“What else?”

“Ducks, too,” Junhui told him, reaching for his glass of wine. “If this is the only life you want, then you can’t be with me in that other life of mine either.”

 _Either_.

Aren’t they together _now_?

“But I am with you in this one.”

Minghao realised how his counter-argument sounded an awful lot like a plea. Junhui caught onto the hope in Minghao’s words, like a small flame alight in the distance. Swiftly and deadly, Junhui blew a strong wind over said hope.

Staring at Minghao from behind the rim of his glass, Junhui snuffed out his hope entirely just by saying, “Once upon a time, maybe. A long time ago.”

Minghao wanted to ask, _do you hate me that much_ , but he found that he was too afraid of the answer.

🌙

“What’s wrong?”

There’s genuine concern in Mingyu’s tone, presumably because he sees the expression Minghao is wearing. He’s still staring at the closed bedroom door, for Wonwoo had made sure to shut it properly behind him when he walks out to give the two of them a bit of privacy.

Minghao's heard about the increased protection around Mingyu after the dangerous stunt he pulled, but he didn’t expect it to come in the form of a man whose eyes tell Minghao nothing of his motivations.

It’s partially his ego speaking. Mingyu might not be in love with him but he still loves Minghao, and because of that there should be no room for another soul to occupy. How hypocritical of him to think that way, since his own bleeding heart holds two: Junhui and Mingyu.

“Nothing,” Minghao shakes his head and puts on a teasing smile. “You like him?”

“Who?”

“Come on.” He walks toward the bed and sits himself on Mingyu’s lap, straddling his thighs. “Jeon Wonwoo,” Minghao traces the other’s lips with this thumb.

He wonders if Mingyu’s kissed Wonwoo, if he’d kiss him the same way he kisses Minghao: eager and a little impatient. He wonders how he’d feel if he sees them go at it in front of him.

Minghao might have been the one to offer Wonwoo a place in Mingyu’s bed today, but it was more to gauge how he would react to the proposition than anything else. If Wonwoo had accepted… perhaps Minghao would settle with being the audience for the first round. Just to learn more about the man.

“He’s…” Mingyu looks at the ceiling and huffs. “Maybe.”

Minghao guides his face back down so Mingyu can’t escape his gaze. “ _Maybe_?”

“My father probably sent him to spy on me, but Wonwoo shoved me out of a bullet’s trajectory without any hesitation. Tell me, what am I supposed to do with that?”

Minghao doesn’t have an answer for him. If he could tell Mingyu that he’d do the same, he would. The thing is, Minghao doesn’t know. He hopes there won’t come a time when he has to find out the answer to that question.

The pain of taking a shot, he’ll bear that for Mingyu gladly. But if Minghao dies, what will become of Junhui? The prospect of leaving him alone in this cruel place scares him more than death itself.

Seemingly attuned to his increasingly gloomy mood, Mingyu kisses him on the lips. He licks across the seam, asking to be let in, and Minghao grants him his wish.

When he withdraws from Minghao’s space, Mingyu quickly redirects the conversation to another topic. “How long are you staying for this time?”

“Not long,” Minghao answers, automated. Then he says, “Sorry,” because he always feels sorry to Mingyu.

“Why are you sorry?” Mingyu’s laugh is one of his favourite sounds in the world. He pinches Minghao’s cheek, an action meant to reprimand but only delivers his affection instead. “You don’t need to be sorry with me, you know this.”

Arms come to wrap around Minghao’s lithe body. Mingyu reels him in to nuzzle into his neck, rubbing his nose over and over again at the dip of Minghao’s throat like his scent calms him. In return, Minghao buries his face in the crown of Mingyu’s head, kisses him there over and over again until Mingyu is satisfied with the ministrations.

“Thank you for paying me a visit,” he murmurs against Minghao’s jaw, “I’ve missed you.”

“Me too.”

“Do you have any place to be today?”

“No.”

Today is Mingyu’s designated day.

Minghao made that decision when he rerouted his travel to pass through Seoul. He decided the same thing when he asked to be dropped off in front of the Kim group’s compound. Again, the same decision was reiterated when he punched in the security code at the gates last night.

For safety reasons, the code is changed monthly. Yet without fail, Mingyu would send him a text with the new code on the first day of the month. Even if Minghao hasn't expressed any intentions of paying him a visit.

For that, Minghao loves him. For that— “I’m all yours.”

Mingyu smiles into their kiss. “Good.”

🌙

Before he goes to Junhui, Minghao stops for a drink. Liquid courage, if you will. He never knows what to expect when he knocks on Junhui’s door. Hostility for sure, but sometimes it’s served cold with a side of cynicism, other times it comes on a hot plate, sizzling with steam coming off of the surface.

“Hansol,” Minghao grins, tapping the wooden countertop.

“I didn’t know you were in town,” the younger frowns. Another person could take offence to that, but Minghao understands a welcome when he hears one. Hansol sets Minghao’s usual beer in front of him without being asked to. “I always know when you’re in town.”

He leans across the counter. The bar is quiet at this time of the day, so Hansol has ample time to make conversation with him. Minghao lets his finger trace the mouth of the bottle, collecting the condensation around there before he takes a polite swig.

“It’s unplanned,” he tells Hansol. “I’m not pulling a job. Just finished one, actually. Had some time before I’m due back at headquarters, so I went to see Mingyu for a bit.”

Hansol frowns in disapproval, but it’s a devastatingly good look on him.

“Seungkwan must have known and decided not to tell me.”

“Fighting again?” Minghao inquiries lightly.

“All is fair in love and war,” he shrugs, which Minghao translates as _yes_. They probably had a clash of opinions on the type of fabric softener to use—that’s the kind of silly fights Seungkwan would pick up if only to be able to kiss and make up in the end. “What about you?”

“Fighting always.”

Minghao finds himself at the receiving end of Hansol’s sympathetic look. The cold edges around his eyes melt, a semblance of warmth emanating from dark irises. Minghao smiles at the bartender to reassure him that it’s fine. He’s grown used to the fighting now, it’s a part of his routine.

“There’s a time to stop, you know,” Hansol says, soft.

When did he become this concerned about Minghao? It makes Minghao’s heart smile, knowing that the journey he’s had to go through gave him not only with deep scars, but also a couple of good friends along the way.

“I know,” replies Minghao, because he does know. “I’ll stop when I die, not a second sooner.”

🌙

He will never fully understand why out of all the places in the world, Junhui chose to settle down in Seoul.

“What are you doing here?” he asks Minghao the moment he sees him.

No greeting, no _how are you, my love?_ No nothing. There has never been _how are you, my love?_ because Junhui’s never called him that ever since he went away the first time. It’s been so long, even Minghao’s bones are beginning to ache as much as his soul is.

“Asking you to come home.”

His answer is a routine, and Junhui’s respond to that is as firm as the way the Sun rises in the east:

“The answer is still no.”

Here comes the begging, which is also routine.

“Junhui,” pleads Minghao.

“How many times do I have to tell you? _No_.”

Minghao wonders, quietly so, what Junhui is latching onto in this wretched city. Why won’t he leave this all behind like he did all the other ones? He was used to disappearing from the younger, and yet when he found Seoul it’s almost if he has a new purpose: to haunt Minghao. To make sure he knows that having the knowledge of Junhui whereabouts does not change his position in the game. Minghao will always lose and Junhui will always see to it.

Junhui sniffs the air around him and pulls away with evident disgust on his features.

“You reek of sex.”

Minghao opens his mouth to answer, but Junhui beats him to it.

“He came here a couple months of back, you know. His bodyguard got shot, bled all over the damn place like a slaughtered cow. Your boy-toy didn’t recognise me, not even a little bit. Does even know my name? The man whose husband he’s fucking?”

It stings. Junhui only ever brings up the fact that they’re married when he’s throwing insults at Minghao, despite it being one of Minghao’s favourite thing about him.

“‘Course he doesn’t.” He scoffs. It’s derisive, dismissive. Junhui is implicitly giving Minghao direction to the door. “People never matter enough to you anyway.”

But that’s not true, Minghao’s heart roars with his disagreement. That’s not the slightest bit true.

“You matter to me.”

“It’s obvious that I don’t,” refutes Junhui, shaking his head. The expression on his face is a mixture of exasperation and anguish. “You disrespect me as a person every time you sleep with Kim Mingyu.”

“I don’t sleep with Mingyu to disrespect you,” Minghao tries to explain, desperately needing Junhui to grasp this concept. “I sleep with him because he loves me. And I love him.”

“Right. The same way you love me, I guess?”

“No,” he answers firmly. “Not the same way.”

Junhui raises both eyebrows as he waits for Minghao to continue. Before he says anything else, Minghao takes a deep breath. It’s a long time coming, this confrontation between them. It doesn’t mean Minghao is ever going to be ready for it. It doesn’t mean his skin doesn’t crawl with his discomfort, his desire to vanish into thin air. It doesn’t mean it’s hard, knowing that he’s broken Junhui’s heart again in this way.

“It’s nice to love someone who loves you back, who doesn’t look at you with utter disgust when you walk into the room. He welcomes me with open arms even though he knows I’d have to leave by the end of the day. You, on the other hand, tear me apart every time I even as much as knock on the door, Junhui. You know that right?”

His husband’s anger boils like water on a kettle left for too long.

“Don’t you dare blame me for any of this,” Junhui says in a thin voice.

“I’m not blaming you, because it’s not a mistake.”

And it’s not a mistake, Minghao would never refer to the time he spent with and his affection for Mingyu as a mistake—but it _is_ a mistake to acknowledge it in front of Junhui.

Suddenly, the shadow Junhui casts behind him is no longer human in its form, instead it’s a beast. Biding its time patiently in the dark, waiting for the perfect time to pounce at Minghao. Perhaps it won’t be tonight, but sooner or later Minghao will find his neck broken in between its jaws, crimson spilling to the ground from where the beast’s teeth ripped through his flesh.

“Are you listening to yourself? You just said your infidelity isn’t a mistake.”

“Infidelity?”

“What else do you call it?” Junhui’s hackles rise along with the tone of his voice. “We’re _married_.”

“But we’re not in a marriage,” Minghao points out, coming into terms with the very thing that’s been haunting him since he woke up in an empty bed without Junhui in it with him.

“See? You have no respect for me.”

He feels so tired. Minghao stops seeing the point of this argument other than hurting each other unnecessarily. They both should be aware that Minghao would drop anything to be with Junhui. That he wouldn’t ever need to find shelter in others had Junhui’s arms welcomed him openly. Junhui is entirely too smart to not know, but if Junhui knows this and he’s still saying all that he’s said—then he’s the one disrespecting Minghao.

Disrespecting the love he has for him.

“Like you do for me?”

Junhui’s gaze darkens. “I’m not in the habit of sleeping around with people who aren’t my husband.”

“You don’t sleep with your husband, either. Congratulations, but respect is more than inviting me to share your bed.”

“Are you done?” The question comes through gritted teeth. Junhui’s fist uncurls only for him to point at the door. “Get out.”

Minghao leaves voluntarily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took me... 5 months? haaaa it was supposed to be out on minghao's birthday but life has other plans. :] one more chapter to go! hopefully, it won't take me as long as this one did. 
> 
> as usual, all mistakes are mine. thank you for being patient and if I made you reread the first chapter for this, I apologise hahaha. <3
> 
> ah, I almost forgot.
> 
> 我愛你, 小浩浩 is I love you, xiao hao hao  
> &  
> 我也是 is so do I


	3. when i meet you after time passes, i'll know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Is that what you call running after my tail?” Junhui glances up at him, eyes shining with unshed tears. “Trying to fix things?”
> 
> “I was only following your breadcrumbs. Don’t you think it’s time we drop the pretence?” suggests Minghao, adding a gentle smile at the end to persuade Junhui. “I understand now. You are only ever found when you want to be found.”
> 
> _When you miss me enough to want to see me again, despite it hurting._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here we go for one last time~ 
> 
> mistakes are all mine as usual! (+ disclaimer some geographical detail may be inaccurate D:)
> 
> warning for sexual content starting from "The day Minghao hammers in the last nail [...]" to the next 🌙 divider and some descriptions in the next section.

Since Junhui slipped through his fingers the first time, Minghao has rarely ever had good nights to begin with. Tonight was considerably worse than most. First he couldn’t fall asleep for more than fifteen minutes at a time, muddled thoughts running amok inside his head. Minghao doesn’t even know what he’s restless about. The voices just won’t _stop_.

Then his phone rang shrill through the silence, screen blinking brightly in the pitch darkness, and Minghao knew it meant nothing good when he recognised the caller ID as Junhui’s head of security.

 _He’s in the wind_ , the man had spoken with a careful tone. Less to ensure the information was received well, more to avoid setting Minghao off like a loose cannon. _Took his passport with him,_ he continued after a prolonged beat of silence, _but there is no sign of forced entry._

_We think he might have gone on his own accord._

Minghao’s body ran on autopilot after the line disconnected. Within the next blink, he found himself inside a moving jet, headed toward Junhui’s last known whereabouts. He must sweep Junhui’s residence with his own eyes—leaving the task to subordinate officers is out of the question. Some revealing details about where he went or who took him might go overlooked by their meagreness, and Minghao doesn’t like leaving things up to chance when it comes to his husband.

Junhui’s apartment felt lively when he arrived. His warm presence lingered in the air like an outcast spirit. 

For once they gave him all the information there was to give. Minghao stormed out, frustrated, and went straight to the only place his head could take him. Junhui has been so settled of late, settled enough to make Minghao think he’s through with running away.

With making Minghao chase after him.

The truth is, he has no one to blame but his foolish hope for such presumptuousness. Minghao should have known better. He should have foreseen this.

“Where is he?” Minghao demands to the man standing behind the bar the moment he enters the establishment. “My husband, do you know?”

The stunned parting of Hansol’s mouth upon hearing his question makes Minghao’s heart drops to the floor.

“You don’t know,” he exhales, and how the words feel leaden.

“I’ll call Seungkwan,” replies Hansol, quick to bounce back from his initial surprise. “He’s visiting his sister in Jeju right now, but I’ll call him. Okay? Sit down.”

Since his legs are losing power as they are, Minghao sits down on one of the high benches and waits for Hansol to make the call. With a phone propped to his ear by his shoulder, Hansol slides Minghao his regular bottle of beer across the counter, cold liquid fizzing at the neck.

As much as Minghao wishes to numb himself, the drink reminds him too much of Junhui. A strange feeling greets Minghao like an old friend: an awful mix of anxiety, uncertainty, and _loss_. Who would have thought reliving the same moment time and time again brings one no closer to knowing how to deal with it?

Hansol hangs up and slips the phone back into his pocket. Minghao straightens his back.

“He said to check with the Wang Group.” At that Minghao stands up from his seat, reaching inside his inner suit pocket for the bundle of cash he keeps there. “Some men came to see Junhui last month. Seungkwan watched him for a few days after but nothing happened, so he thought it was just a simple consultation.”

That’s enough information for Minghao to go on. He places the money next to the untouched bottle of beer and Hansol swiftly removes both items from the countertop. Minghao figures he must look downright awful then, a man at the brink of insanity. If there’s still a semblance of composure left on his features, Hansol is more likely to refuse his payment. He’d make something up about the service being on the house out of rapport.

Minghao expects Hansol to tell him _good luck_ and bid him a brief farewell before he lets him go. But it appears that nothing is going the way Minghao wants to tonight, because the next thing Hansol says to him is: “Before you leave, there’s something you need to know about Kim Mingyu.”

🌙

Seoul to Hong Kong is a four-hour flight, though it feels much longer than that tonight. To Minghao’s non-surprise, a group of Wang men is waiting for his arrival at the private airstrip. Junhui had told them he was coming once, it makes perfect sense that he’s chosen to warn them again. The men treat Minghao with less hostility than they did the first time around; he suspects the increased leniency is attributed to the outcome of his last visit. Because Minghao had supported Junhui’s interests which had aligned with theirs, tonight they welcome him with their guns tucked safely in their body holsters.

One of them, a scrawny-looking kid who barely looks a day past twenty, gazes at Minghao knowingly. He’s seen that look before. It came from Mingyu once, the night Minghao came clean to him about Junhui and the circumstances of their marriage. There is a great amount of understanding in those young eyes, but there is also a hint of condolence, as though he can feel Minghao’s pain just by being his proximity.

Minghao lifts his head higher, almost proud to wear the battle scars Junhui had mercilessly inflicted on him without having to lift a sword.

 _You don’t know a tenth of what you think misery is,_ he thinks as he returns the kid’s gaze steadily.

He leaves his men at the hangar with instructions to follow in the case he fails to make contact in the next 48 hours. Though they seem reluctant to let him go, they don’t have the authority to tell him no. Minghao surrenders his weapon to the Wang men and enters one of the black sedans. The windows are tinted so heavily he couldn’t see outside, so he’s left with the microcosm of the inner car for the entire trip.

There’s a panel separating the front and back seat, but Minghao can hear them talk all the same. The topic of their conversation is one that has been brought to his attention many times in the past couple of months, but so far Minghao has refused to credence to rumours. To whispers uttered in passing, low murmurs behind partially ajar doors.

Junhui’s found solace in another’s arms, those whispers say—just like Minghao did in Mingyu’s, strong and protective but never proprietorial as they were.

Despite what they think of him, Minghao is not made out of stone. He isn’t made of ice. Ice, however, is what courses through his veins once he’s standing at the door of Junhui’s room.

Junhui sits at the edge of the king-sized bed. A beautiful man stands between his spread legs. The man’s delicate hands, which were previously framing Junhui’s face and tilting it upward, drop back to his sides pronto at the sight of Minghao.

Gaze settling on his husband’s features, Minghao finds him completely free of guilt. Junhui is the furthest thing from a deer caught in headlights. In place of a helpless prey, an apex predator stares back at Minghao. A pair of piercing hazel eyes challenges him to do something, _anything_ about their current predicament.

“I didn’t know I was interrupting,” Minghao says, taking a step backwards, uncrossing the wooden threshold. Perhaps he should leave, seeing as Junhui looks perfectly fine where he is. He’s safe. He’s sound. Minghao’s presence here is rather unnecessary—it’s likely to be unwanted, too. “Am I interrupting?”

“Yanan was just about to leave,” Junhui answers him, deliberately revealing the man’s identity to Minghao. The name rolls of his tongue easily; a known word, familiar. Intimate. “Weren’t you?” he asks the man.

 _Yanan_ ’s surprise is short-lived. It flashes across his face for a split second before it’s replaced with a quiet understanding. “I was.”

After sparing Junhui one last unreturned glance, he clears his throat and walks toward Minghao, who steps aside to let him exit the room. Minghao waits until Yanan’s turned around the corner, disappearing from sight, then he turns his attention back to Junhui.

“Are you alright?”

“Are you going to cut off his hands?” Junhui returns.

“What? Who?”

“Yanan.” He stands up from the bed and stretches his arms above his head, exposing a sliver of his midsection to Minghao. “Are you going to cut off his hands for his courage to lay them on me?”

Minghao sighs, fatigued from his long journey. The sun is about to rise outside the window and Minghao wishes he has its commitment to shine in the morning no matter what how dreadful the night gets. 

“I think that reaction would be a little on the extreme side,” he leans against the wall next to the bedroom door. Minghao crosses his arms in front of his chest and points out, “considering you fully sanctioned his touch.”

His husband scoffs. “Is that so?”

Something in his tone lights up a hot flare inside Minghao. “What do you want from me?”

“Why are you asking me that,” Junhui shoots back, “when you’re the one who came looking for me?”

“You left without a word,” Minghao gives him an answer, though he’s sure Junhui already knows the obvious. “It’d be nice if you can just tell your guards when you’re heading next time, so I don’t have to turn the entire world upside down trying to find you.”

“What, are you tired of playing hide and seek already? You’re free to quit the game whenever you’d like.”

He pushes himself off the wall. “Junhui,” Minghao warns.

“Go ahead.” Junhui lifts his chin in rebelliousness. Through the daring look in his eyes, he presents Minghao with a challenge. “Punish me.”

This useless display of faux-repulsion, a noxious decade-long facade that’s slowly killing them both—Minghao no longer sees the point of it. Refusing to play along with Junhui’s game, he shakes his head.

“Right. You won’t.”

“I don’t understand you,” he tells Junhui, fighting hard to keep his voice stable. Minghao’s heart feels raw. “Do you want me to be the heinous villain you’ve always painted me to be, so you don’t have to feel guilty about how you’ve treated me throughout the course of our marriage? Or do you there to be an ounce of humanity left in me, so you don’t have to be disgusted with yourself when you eventually admit you still love me? Which is it, gē?”

Minghao’s chest is heaving by the time he’s through spitting the words out. Junhui appears slightly shaken by his offence, eyes wide. Wild. He gulps thickly, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. Such confrontation must have been beyond his expectations, for Minghao has always chosen to yield to him rather than fight.

“You think you know me.”

“I do know you. I know you best.” He takes a step closer to Junhui. His husband remains unflinching in the prospect of diminishing distance. “And you know me.”

 _Even after all this time_.

Looking away from Minghao, Junhui grabs his sleeping robe from the bed. “Are you hungry?”

The war, it seems, has taken a break for now. A sudden halt in the raging storm. Minghao feels like Junhui does this to take him by surprise the same way Minghao had done to him.

“I can eat.”

“Alright, then.”

When Junhui pushes past him Minghao catches a whiff of his shampoo, the signature sandalwood scent strong and earthy. There was a time when he was allowed to thread his fingers through those locks, no matter what colour they were dyed in. A time when Junhui would fall asleep in his lap the same way he had on their way back from the orphanage, and his hair would fan out across Minghao’s slim thighs, the different shades often a study in contrast. When Minghao could smell that fragrance right off of his fingertips, having buried them so deep in Junhui’s hair as they made love that it lingered there after.

Junhui takes another step further, and the scent is gone.

🌙

He spends the next days in the heart of enemy territory, treated like a prestigious guest. Minghao is never invited to dine with the others, but trays with more food than he can bodily consume are delivered to his room like clockwork. Sometimes Junhui would come with the meals, and they’d eat in silence while Minghao wonders when would be a good time to leave.

Whether it’s worth the heartbreak, asking Junhui to come home with him before he does.

One night Junhui shows up at his door with a book in his hand. He hands it to Minghao wordlessly after a servant comes for their empty plates, then he turns his phone on and starts playing a mobile game. The scene Junhui’s chosen to set is strange, too strange. Minghao’s mouth tastes like something foreign and it has nothing to do with the Eastern European cuisine in his stomach.

Minghao takes the book. 后来时间都与你有关, the title reads, A Matter of Love. On the cover art, a woman stands above the clouds, holding a giant hourglass in her hand. There’s a small wall clock near her, the circular shape deliberately drawn to resemble a planet. The hands show twenty minutes past five. A man in an astronaut attire waves at her from across space.

The book is a collection of short stories, which helps retain Minghao’s concentration for the most part. He’s a couple of pages into the fourth story when a phone rings. Minghao looks up at Junhui to ask who’s calling him at this hour only to realise that it wasn’t Junhui’s cell that rang. Slowly, he rises from his seat and walks over to the nightstand where his phone is buzzing non-stop.

 _Unknown Number_.

From that alone, Minghao knows exactly who it is. He throws Junhui a cursory glance before he steps out onto the small balcony attached to the room. His fingers tremble from guilt even before he presses the green icon on the screen. He’s thought about _him_ a couple of times since leaving Seoul, but never enough considering the gravity of the situation he knew the other was in.

“ _Myungho_ ,” Mingyu’s gruff voice comes through the line.

The soft enunciation of his Korean moniker—one that Mingyu gifted to him with love, one free of the burden the name _Xu Minghao_ bears _—_ it has Minghao holding on to the metal railing to steady himself. “You’re alive.”

“ _I am_.”

He takes a deep breath. This isn't the time to ask for Mingyu to comfort him, not when it should be the other way around. Minghao has failed him already—even when Hansol informed him that Mingyu was taken by the Kwon group, even when the younger had connected him to the men who were making plans to save him, Minghao couldn’t partake in his rescue mission.

“Are you okay?”

“ _I am_.”

Minghao closes his eyes. “He did promise you’ll make it out alive.”

He wants to tell Mingyu about the firm resolution he heard in Wonwoo’s tone. Even through the phone it was so palpable, it immediately wrapped around Minghao and offered him relief. If Wonwoo had been brave enough to promise him Mingyu’s safety, then Mingyu would be safe. And he is.

Mingyu says nothing for a few moments and Minghao listens to his breathing, a little rough on the inhales. Then Minghao’s resistance crumbles into fine dust, because he used to fall asleep lulled by that rhythm, and if it had ceased to exist tonight, he would have been partially responsible for it.

“I’m sorry.”

_I am sorry. Mingyu, my love, I am sorry._

“ _For what?_ ”

“I should have come. You could’ve—”

Mingyu cuts off the rest of his sentence. “ _No. You think you’d get rid of me that easily_?”

He huffs into the transmitter. This is exactly what Minghao meant about Mingyu comforting him. “I should have come,” Minghao says again.

There’s more than a hundred but’s that can follow that sentence. But Junhui was gone. But I needed to be sure that he was alright, not ninety-nine per cent but one hundred, and that meant leaving your fate in another’s hands. But I had to make a choice, and my heart told me it wasn’t you. But—

“ _But you didn’t._ ”

“But I didn’t,” Minghao concedes to the truth.

Mingyu’s textured breathing fills Minghao’s ear again, and he waits. If he listens closely, he can hear Mingyu’s low humming as they take a bath, soap-lathered hands sliding smoothly across skin, fingers combing through hair. A tender memory, one Minghao will always cherish. He wonders if Mingyu is thinking of the same thing he is, recalling all the places where their lines crossed before they head in different directions.

“ _Better come for me in the next life, you hear_?”

Minghao wipes a silent tear that falls down his cheek. “In the next life,” he swears.

Then he hangs up.

Junhui is no longer interested in his game when Minghao returns to the room. He sits with his legs folded up to his chest, arms wrapped around them and chin rested on his right knee. 

“Who called?”

Minghao doesn’t want to lie to him. “Mingyu.”

The older glances at the clock at Minghao’s bedside. “It’s like 3 AM there. What did he want? A booty call?”

“Stop it,” he admonishes, though gently. “Please… just stop it.”

 _In the next life_ , Mingyu had said, because even he can acknowledge that Minghao belongs to someone else in this one.

“I’m done, gē.” A flicker of panic momentarily paints Junhui’s face before it disappears. “He was kidnapped. Tortured, for all I know, but I couldn’t help him because I had to find you. Even though you were likely to be alright, I couldn’t not see to that myself. Then when I did, all I got was venomous words spat at me. Mingyu could have died.”

The prospect is horrifying to Minghao. A dead sun would mean no more light for those it shines upon.

“And what if he did?”

Minghao raises his fist in the air on instinct. Junhui watches him, stubbornly refusing to look away from whatever monster his words are about to transform Minghao into. After a heartbeat, Minghao brings it back down to his side.

“Then I’d have to live with that, on top of your abhorrence toward me.”

“You’d live like that?”

Minghao _has_ to live like that, he doesn’t have a choice. Just like he didn’t truly have one when it was Mingyu's fate on one side of the balance and Junhui on the other.

“As long as you’re still breathing, I still have a purpose,” Minghao tells him candidly. How long has it been since the last time they were this honest with each other? “I’d always rather you live hating me than die loving me. What am I to do with your corpse? You already haunt me in this way, there is no need to involve death.”

Uncharacteristically quiet, Junhui stares at him, his gaze piercing right through Minghao’s defence shield. The moment drags on, so long that Minghao thinks if he glances at the book, the clock on the cover will now show him a different time. He doesn’t have the slightest idea where the cards will fall today. They’re all in Junhui’s hands. 

Junhui eventually breaks away from Minghao’s gaze. He puts his legs down, plants both feet on the floor, and runs his hands up and down his thighs.

“I loved you.” He says lowly, as though it pains him to speak the words. “And you fucked me over. Then you fucked other people.”

He nods once in acknowledgement of all that he's done. “Tell me what you want, Junhui-gē. Tell me how to fix this.”

“What if it’s irreparable?” His husband squeezes both knees, bone-white knuckles protruding from beneath skin.

Minghao refuses to believe that. They are the only two people who can mend the wound they left on each other. If he has to spend the rest of his life trying, so be it. Minghao belongs to Junhui anyway; body and soul. Always has, always will.

“It never is until you decide against trying.”

“Is that what you call running after my tail?” Junhui glances up at him, eyes shining with unshed tears. “Trying to fix things?”

“I was only following your breadcrumbs. Don’t you think it’s time we drop the pretence?” suggests Minghao, adding a gentle smile at the end to persuade Junhui. “I understand now. You are only ever found when you want to be found.”

_When you miss me enough to want to see me again, despite it hurting._

Junhui clasps his hands together on his lap and Minghao watches his slim fingers hug one another.

“Okay, let’s try.”

Minghao blinks. This is what he wanted, what he always wanted, but to hear the words come from Junhui feels odd. “Did you say let’s try?”

“Yes.”

Before he can ask Junhui to confirm it one more time, the older has stood up join their mouths together in a kiss that reminds Minghao of the very first one they ever shared. Nervous, bumbling virgins trying to figure out why other people liked the act of kissing so much, only to end up with kiss-swollen lips and ragged breaths themselves.

“Let’s try,” and then, a resonating murmur, “Haohao."

🌙

The day before he departs from Hong Kong, Minghao receives an invitation to afternoon tea from the head of the Wang group. He supposes a conversation between them is long overdue, and Minghao ought to thank him for his hospitality over the course of his stay. Wang Jiaer has treated Junhui with care, too, and for that Minghao owes him a debt of gratitude.

Instead of being led to a study room by the man who had relayed his invitation, Minghao is brought to the back garden of the compound. Jiaer sits on the floor of the porch, a rose-coloured cushion propped underneath his thighs. Another laid empty across a small wooden table from him, meant for Minghao’s perusal. Above the table, a tea set awaits: two porcelain cups, white with intricate blue swirls, and one crystalline pot, in plain golden colour.

“Sit,” Wang Jiaer says.

Minghao sits down, tucking his legs beneath him. Out of the corner of his eyes, he catches a glimpse of a familiar figure. Junhui stands tall at the far edge of the garden. A little girl Minghao has never seen before is stepping on his toes, the two of them dancing to a tune Minghao’s ears can’t catch from this distance. Junhui looks happy—so does the girl.

“It won’t be long.”

The words serve as a request for his attention, so Minghao turns to address the man sitting next to him. “I’m not due to leave until tomorrow,” Minghao assures him, “I don’t mind a lengthy conversation.”

Jiaer reaches for his cup and takes a small sip. “I wasn’t talking about this meeting, Xu Minghao.”

He’s talking about his daughter, Minghao quickly gathers. Junhui has told him that the older the girl gets, the lesser her chances are to see her next birthday. She genetically inherited the same autoimmune disease that took her mother, but for someone whose body is killing her from the inside out, the girl looks absolutely radiant. Scintillating.

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I.”

Jiaer places his cup back on the tray. He turns toward Minghao, allowing him sight to all the tired lines decorating his face. Minghao has never seen him this up close before. In photographs everyone looks a little different, sharp edges less distinguished, emotion masked. But here Wang Jiaer shows Minghao the face of a friend.

There’s a rough attractiveness to his feature: the high nose-bridge coupled with a pair of knowing eyes, confidence oozing out of them a result of years of experience. He must have been quite the looker back in his 20s, but he’s decades past that now.

“I’m retiring, Minghao,” he says, and Minghao instantly frowns. Should be he allowed this information? “This life has taken a lot from me, though it gives me just as much. Perhaps the most important thing it stole is time, and while I cannot get back what I’ve lost, I’d like to spend what little I have left doing what matters. With the people who matter to me.”

“Please,” Minghao interjects, “don’t tell me more. I have an obligation to—”

“Report back to your father?” Jiaer raises an eyebrow in question. Minghao nods slowly. “Well, I’m counting on that.”

“Why would you…?” he trails off, confused.

“Whether I like it or not, someone will take over my business once I’m out of the picture. I’d rather have a say in who gets to do so.”

No, Minghao’s heart screams in silence, it’s dangerous to put even more power in his father’s bloody hands, but his mind says: this knowledge is something he can use as leverage.

Reaching for the pot with a steady hand, Minghao pours a stream of pale-yellowish hot brew into his cup. “May I ask what exactly you are proposing?”

“Junhui has been kind to me,” Jiaer replies. “More than I could ever ask from a member of the opposition.”

“Junhui won't want you to give your territories to the Xu group,” says Minghao. “They are more his enemies than yours.”

He looks over at Minghao, full of meaning. “I’m not giving it to the Xu group.”

The lines are easy to read, or at least Minghao thinks so, but when he opens his mouth to voice his objection, to tell Jiaer that the last thing he wants is to be involved deeper in the dirty trade, the other man proves him wrong.

“I’m offering to give it to Xu Xuanyi.”

“My sister?” Minghao blurts out before he can filter his thought.

Why would Wang Jiaer do that? How were they acquainted with one another? And most importantly, why is this the first time Minghao's exposed to a connection between the two of them?

“People say she’s a woman of great means. I am inclined to agree with the sentiment, though I’ve never had the pleasure to meet her myself.” His gaze sweeps over the garden until it lands on the little girl. A smile tugs at the corner of his lips, and Jiaer gives his daughter a small wave.

“But we have corresponded before.” Minghao’s lips part in surprise. “When Junhui came for a visit the first time, he had a postcard sent to her. I sent one of my own alongside his. She replied to both. That was how it began.”

The revelation is so astounding, it has Minghao staring into his cup of tea, waiting for it to turn into wine at any given moment. Xuanyi’s kept this a secret for him—for how long? The first time he was tasked to retrieve Junhui in Hong Kong was five years ago. Has this plan been concocted the entire time, Minghao kept at a distance from it all, forced to live in the shadows of ignorance?

“She said you’d be heavily burdened by the weight of carrying such secret,” Jiaer continues. “So we didn’t tell you.”

“Does Junhui know?”

“No,” he answers initially, but then changes his mind, “Perhaps. The man is hard to read, except when I find him fast asleep by my daughter’s bed after a particularly difficult night.”

That does sound like Junhui. The Junhui Minghao loves. “What role must I play in this?”

“I learned of the lie you told. Your father made sure the high-ranking officers within the Xu group were aware of the little dragon’s achievement, which was how word reached Xuanyi.”

He knows he should be scared. Wang Jiaer is a powerful man who sits at the very top of the pyramid of powerful men, and Minghao had gambled his life twice by fabricating that story. First with his father, whose wrath will be unmatched if he ever finds out Minghao failed at retrieving Junhui or securing an advantage that night, the second with Jiaer himself.

Minghao opens his mouth, less to apologise than to argue the necessity of the lie to save Junhui’s life, but Jiaer raises a hand to stop him.

“There’s no need to explain. It proved beneficial to our situation. All you have to do now is tell your father you brokered this deal to settle the blood debt. Add whatever conditions you’d like to the term I have. All I ask is your sister spearhead the operations.”

Minghao takes a sip of his tea to soothe the sudden dryness in his throat. It passes through his throat smoothly, warmth unfolding inside his chest, then his belly.

“Xuanyi has given me her word that she’d find a place for my men. Make sure their families are taken care of. They won’t starve, nor will they die in the hands of a usurper. I want to rest, Xu Minghao. This life absorbs the strength out of you like a leech does blood. My daughter should’ve never been a part of it.”

No, Minghao thinks, children are never supposed to be a part of any of this. At least the girl is loved, even if said love came late and at a price.

“Neither did Junhui,” Jiaer continues.

He understands. Minghao might have been the one who lied when he told his father that the Wang group owed them, but it was Junhui’s kindness that led them to places they could’ve never gone to otherwise.

“This is you giving Junhui a way out.”

“It’s the least I can do for him. He bought me time with her when other physicians simply chose to give up because it was much easier to do.”

Minghao’s eyes seek his husband’s form. Junhui turns to him at the right time and concern marred his features to see Minghao sitting with Jiaer. He asks Minghao _are you okay?_ without having to say anything, and Minghao offers him a smile to ease his worries. The girl tugs at Junhui’s shirt, demanding his attention, and the moment passes.

“Thank you,” is all Minghao says to Jiaer.

It’ll never be enough, but it’s all Minghao has to offer.

That night he stays in Junhui’s room until dawn breaks over the horizon, the sunrise painting the sky purple and orange. They’re about to be separated again soon, and neither wants to be apart from the other until he absolutely has to. His husband lies awake on the bed the entire time, Minghao sitting on the chair in the corner of the room, watching him.

He asks Junhui, “Given the chance, would you want to be free of me?”

Minghao has sufficient ammunition to ask for a divorce. Given what lies on the balance, his father will likely agree to it. The harbour that comes with Minghao’s marriage to Junhui is one thing, but taking over the Wang group’s enterprise would give access to a dozen gold mines in one of the busiest regions in the continent. The numbers add up.

Freedom—the one thing Junhui has wanted since the night he asked Minghao to flee with him—will be a small price to pay.

“Stop asking stupid questions,” Junhui mumbles sleepily, his voice breaking Minghao’s trance. He rolls to his side so he can capture the younger’s gaze. “How does one live without a beating heart?”

🌙

Things are changing.

Over the next six months, Minghao gets preoccupied with overseeing the transition of leadership, working around the clock to ensure Xuanyi face no unknown enemies once Jiaer slinks into a private life, never to resurface in the eyes of the public again. He forgives her easily for keeping things from him, because it was the wise thing to do. Minghao thinks too much—knowing about this sooner would just send him into an over-analysing spiral that would benefit no one.

He hears tidbits of news from Seoul from time to time. Updates. Hansol tells him about Mingyu’s father’s passing and the inevitable dissolution of his group; Kwon Soonyoung claiming the territories that once belonged to the Kims as his own. In the same exhale, he informs Minghao that Seungcheol entered a partnership with Kwon Soonyoung. That part takes a little longer to stomach, but Seungcheol’s always had that mad streak to him.

Every time he picks up his phone to contact Mingyu, Minghao sees Junhui’s number at the top of the call log and calls him instead. If Mingyu ever needs him, he knows how to reach out to Minghao. But Minghao needs Junhui, which is why he asks Junhui to sing him lullabies in foreign tongues whenever he finds it hard to fall asleep. He complies without fail, a fond chuckle before he begins, and Minghao is happy.

They’re trying, and though Junhui still lives in that small apartment in Gangnam for now, Minghao thinks it won’t be long until he can tell him about the house. He tries to tell Junhui everything nowadays, may it be the joys or sorrows of life.

Minghao filled Junhui in about the plan in its entirety once he’s sure that the agreement with Wang group would hold. That day, instead of concealing his meaning behind hypothetical situations, he asked Junhui directly: _Do you want a divorce from me?_ Junhui stayed silent after, staring at him unblinkingly, so Minghao carefully explained that it might be the one time his request would be granted without resistance.

“I don’t,” was what Junhui told him. “Do you?”

He shook his head gently, felt loose curls sweeping across his forehead. “I said till death do us part, didn’t I?”

“You did,” Junhui nodded, unwavering. “So did I.”

Tonight Junhui is the one who calls him, an hour ahead of Minghao in time, but somehow living in the same moment as he is.

“Hey,” Junhui’s barely audible whisper carries through the line. Minghao’s eyes are already more than half-closed, lidded with exhaustion. “Come find me after it’s done.”

🌙

The second it’s done and his sister is seated safely upon what used to be Wang Jiaer’s throne, Minghao runs to Junhui.

It’s in the middle of the night when he arrived atJunhui’s apartment. He opens the door accordingly, dressed in his plaid pyjama pants, a thin shirt hanging loosely over the upper half of his body. Junhui lies back down on the mattress after he lets Minghao in, and the younger drags a chair from his work desk to sit at his side. There’s no room for him to come join Junhui above the bed, every nook and cranny of the living quarter is still only meant to hold a single soul.

The streams of moonlight trespassing through the blinds are almost pellucid. It casts an emphasising glow on Junhui’s high-bridged nose. Minghao aches to touch him—but what if the man in front of him is made of stardust? Meant only to be admired from afar; the softest touch and he’d disintegrate into nothingness.

“Why Seoul?”

Junhui tenses a little. Minghao gathers his courage and reaches out to trace a line down his arm. He feels Junhui relaxing under his touch.

“Why do you think?”

“I don’t know. After all this time, you are still an enigma to me,” confesses Minghao. “A puzzle I think I won’t ever solve.”

He gives Minghao a side glance, appearing almost… reticent? Minghao feels the need to assure him that Junhui doesn’t have to give him all the answers if he’s not ready to do so, but his husband already offers him one before Minghao has the chance to speak.

“I got tired of running.” Puzzled by his response, Minghao cocks an eyebrow at him. “I was waiting for you to find me.”

“But I found you,” Minghao points out. Tokyo is a lifetime ago. “It’s been a while since I found you.”

Junhui’s forefinger draws random patterns over the plane of Minghao’s palm, the motion both soothing and grounding. _Come find me_ , Junhui had said as an invitation. Perhaps, what Minghao might have overlooked, is that the invitation also doubled as a plea.

“There was this resolution I made. If the day comes when you put me above anyone else, then… that’s when I’ll be ready. When you’ll be ready.”

The kid Minghao saw at the orphanage when he was eleven—he was wise then, and he’s only grown wiser with time. For quite some time this part of Junhui was hidden behind a gaping wound that refused to close, as the person wielding the silver blade that created the opening is none other than the one he would bare his neck for, bare his neck _to_.

“I wanted to know,” Junhui carries on, “that you love me for me. Not for what loving me what can bring to the table. Not for your business.”

It was never about the harbour for Minghao. It was about Junhui’s outstretched arms hitting the corn stalks as he dashed through the field, the wind making a mess out of his hair. It was about the ephemeral phase when Junhui loved ballet and Minghao learned the proper techniques because he loved the way the French terms rolled off Junhui’s tongue. It was about the leather jacket he planned to wear the night he claimed Minghao as his own, how he had draped it over Minghao’s figure and whispered, _keep it._

It was—it is, about the ring Junhui wears on his finger.

“I love you for _me_.”

Loving Junhui keeps Minghao alive.

“Yes,” Junhui nods, eyes emollient. “I know that now, but can you see why it was hard for me to believe that?”

“Yes.” They stare at each other for a heartbeat. “Junhui…”

“Yes.”

“Come home,” Minghao says softly. Bravely. Junhui looks at him, really _looks_ at him, then his gaze falls to Minghao’s mouth. “I built us a house in Shenzhen.”

His eyes find Minghao’s again in an instant. “What?” Junhui sits up on the bed and Minghao moves to kneel in between his legs.

“If you open the back door, there’ll only be corn crops as far as your eyes can see.” Minghao describes this to Junhui with a pleased smile that can barely be contained. He’s akin to a child artist showing off his first masterpiece to anyone who’d care to listen. _Look_ , Minghao is saying, _I created this in your image_. “I think it’ll be harvest time soon.”

“When?” Junhui's breathing is slightly uneven. From his surprise, Minghao thinks, but he hopes it’s also from his excitement. “When did you build it?”

“I couldn’t find you the first time you disappeared... and it was the longest six months of my life. I knew I had to do something before I’d go crazy, so I put my hands to work. The deed to the house is under your name.” 

During the time he spent in Hong Kong, he’d sneak out of the compound bright and early on a lazy day and take the East Rail Line until he got to the border. Granted, the high-speed train would take him to his destination three times faster, but Minghao enjoyed what little time away he had from his duties. The car ride from the border to the house allowed him forty minutes of therapeutic driving.

The first thing he always does upon arrival is to find the keeper. Not of the house, of the cornfield. He’s a man in his mid-30s with great enthusiasm for farming and no questions for Minghao, which works out the best for their arrangement. Minghao gives him whatever he needs to plant and harvest, and in return, the man stays honest with what he uses the money for.

As for the house, Minghao keeps it alive by himself. He’d sweep and mop and wipe all the surfaces clean, then make tea after he’s done. Minghao would sit at the top of the steps on the front porch and wait until the sun goes down, after which point he’d retrace his steps back to Hong Kong.

Xuanyi had never once asked Minghao where he went on these private excursions, but he has a feeling she knows.

“Maybe it’s silly,” he carries on, rubbing small circles onto the pad of Junhui’s knee, “but I thought when the time comes when you’d let me catch you again, I should come with a reason for you to return. A _place_ for you to return to. So… I built us a house.”

“It's not silly. Where in Shenzhen is this?” Junhui watches Minghao’s hand on his knee, but makes no move to remove it from its place. “I thought it’s all tall office buildings and apartments now.”

“In the east, near the mountains. I visited the orphanage once, but it’s no longer around.”

“That’s no surprise.” No, it isn’t. To Minghao, the surprise is this: Junhui moves to intertwine their fingers together and squeezes Minghao’s hand in his, then says, “We should get chickens.”

“Easy,” Minghao agrees, his heart leaping to his throat. He squeezes back, doing his best to tame butterflies in his stomach. “I can build you a coop.”

Junhui grins at Minghao’s accord, given without a moment of hesitation. Minghao desperately wants to kiss the mole above his upper lip. God, isn’t this the most wonderful sight that has ever graced Minghao’s eyes? Even the most vivid constellation in the night sky falls short when compared to him.

“What about ducks?”

Minghao can barely suppress his delighted giggles. Junhui hasn’t said the words out loud, but he’s close, he’s _so_ close. Finally, Minghao’s heart roars in triumph, they can go home. Minghao can go home, and Junhui will come with him.

“There is a river nearby for the ducks, a small branch of the Sham Chun, one of the tributaries.”

“Can you build me a clinic too? For my practice?”

“I will,” Minghao tells him, asking Junhui once more, for what he hopes will be the last time, “if you come home.”

Junhui stands up and tugs Minghao along with him. The younger man goes willingly. At first their interlaced fingers stay at their sides, then his husband guides Minghao’s arms until they’re wrapped around his middle. He releases Minghao’s hands, which instinctively spread over the small of his back, and buries himself into the younger’s embrace. Minghao can feel Junhui’s body through the thin fabric that separates their skin, all solid lines and taut muscles and inexplicable warmth.

His husband hides his face warm in the crook of Minghao’s neck, soft exhales tickling his skin. 

The next words Junhui says reverberate all over his body.

“I am already home.”

🌙

The day Minghao hammers in the last nail on the roof of Junhui’s new clinic, his husband shares a bed with him for the first time since their wedding night. Minghao is more than satisfied with the development, happy to take things slow, at whatever pace is comfortable for Junhui. But it has never been in Junhui’s nature to be predictable, as the hand that initially rests on Minghao’s chest soon enough wrap around his cock, languidly stroking it to hardness until Minghao’s back is arching off the bed, his hips bucking up into Junhui’s increasingly tight fist.

“Gē,” he gasps at the edge of his release, a broken sound, and Junhui kisses him fiercely, openly, like he’s pouring love into Minghao.

And it does fill him— _love_.

So much of it, until Minghao’s about to burst.

Bright red flames burn into the back of his eyelids when Junhui sinks down on him, tight around Minghao— _too_ tight. The head of his cock intrudes past Junhui’s opening, drawing out a groan from the older man that doesn’t exactly originate from pleasure. Minghao forces his eyes open and glances up, worried, firm hands on either side of his waist to stop Junhui from going further.

Junhui almost apologises for the resistance, but Minghao kisses his regrets away before they are spoken aloud. “It’s been a while.”

Minghao kisses him again.

“How long is a while, gēge?” he asks when they break apart.

He looks away to avoid Minghao's gaze, biting down on his bottom lip. “I…” Junhui’s hands knead at his shoulders with fluctuating pressure. He looks somewhat nervous, which he needn’t be, because Minghao loves Junhui enough to absolve him ten thousand times over. “There was someone for a little while. I might have felt something for him.”

He hums. “Does this something have a name?” Minghao doesn’t ask who, because he supposes that’s an irrelevant detail. It might be Yanan, it might not—the name of the feeling is more important than that of the person.

“No,” Junhui tells him. He blows his bangs that are stuck to his forehead and covering his eyes with a puff of breath. “Even if it did, I never found out what it was.” Junhui leans forward until his forehead is pressed against Minghao’s. “Because I’ve never let anyone else touch me like this.”

The confession fractured Minghao’s breath. “Never?”

It’s been years. More years Minghao bothered to remember off the top of his head, because after the first five it started hurting an awful lot, having to count time not spent with the one he loves most.

And never… never is a long, long time.

“Never,” he responds firmly.

“Then…” His tongue feels numb. Minghao’s stunned enough to ask a stupid question, “Did you touch yourself?”

“Of course I did.” Junhui’s grip on his shoulder tightens a fraction. His husband looks shy, which to Minghao’s best recollection he never was. He was confidence trapped in a cage of bones, layered with skin. So to see him this way—what a sight; perfect strokes of rose-coloured paint on a gold canvas. “I have needs.”

“Who did you think about, when you touched yourself?” No answer. Minghao wants to know. Ached deeply for the answer, his longing poured into the question. “Did you think about me?”

An answer: “Yes. There was ever only you.”

“I’m sorry I’ve caused you pain,” Minghao lifts a hand to caress Junhui’s cheek, thumbs at his lips, pink and plump and _kissed_. His touch ghosts over Junhui’s mole—he wants to kiss him there again. And again. And _again_ , if Junhui permits it. “I’m sorry I can’t say the same.”

Junhui swallows around the thorns that have long prickled his throat. Minghao watches him will them into nonexistence, refusing to be hurt for another second. His husband removes Minghao’s other hand from his waist, then takes Minghao deeper inside his body, until he’s all but disappeared inside Junhui, hilt meeting his rim.

“I’m sorry too,” he offers. His dark lashes flutter, voice quiet and gentle, lilting. “If I hadn’t deprived you of love… you wouldn’t have needed to look for it in other places.”

“ _Bǎobèi_ ,” Minghao croaks with effort.

“I know.”

“Junhui.” _I love you._ “Gē.” _Forgive me_.

“We’ve hurt each other.” He starts moving his hips in slow, sluggish circles. Minghao’s head spins; a man who’s just discovered an oasis in the middle of a scorching desert. “Now, we heal each other.”

🌙

Having Junhui sleep next to him again does not make rest come easier to Minghao, at least it won't for the first couple of years. He often wakes long before Junhui even stirs, and in these solitary hours Minghao must find something to keep his mind busy. His hands, too, cannot be left idle, lest he’ll find a way to disturb his husband with them.

This morning he chooses a stick of compressed charcoal, a fine line eraser, and an empty sketchbook as his companions. Minghao sits by the windowsill, one leg on the ledge to serve as an easel for his canvas, the other planted on the floor for support. He looks outside, to the yellow-green field staring back at him in silence, then inside, at Junhui’s sleeping form: bare, outstretched limbs taking over the entire mattress in Minghao’s absence.

He brings the blunt edge of the charcoal to rest above the paper and starts drawing.

Time passes. Minghao is not entirely sure how long, he only notices the change in lighting as the sun rises higher and higher in the sky. At some point, the sheets rustle, and Junhui lets out a small groan as sleep leaves his body in slow waves.

“Hi,” greets Minghao.

Junhui blinks to adjust to his surroundings. “Hey.” He blindly reaches for Minghao’s pillow to prop his head higher. “How are you feeling, my love?”

“Much better now that you’re awake.”

“Ah, stop that, please. It’s far too early for your chronic romanticism,” Junhui grumbles, though there’s no real heat to it. His eyes roam over Minghao’s features in both appreciative and territorial manner, then Junhui notices the consequential items he’s holding. “Are you… drawing?”

“Yes.”

Junhui glances out the window. “The cornfield?”

“No,” Minghao informs him with a gentle smile. “I’ve been drawing you.”

His mouth falls open and through the shadowed gap between his lips Junhui let slip a small, “Oh.” All of a sudden, he’s much more alert than he had been moments before. Minghao licks his lips, waiting for the scene to play out according to Junhui’s wishes.

Minghao’s patience pays off when Junhui asks, “Should I not move, then?”

“If that’s okay with you. I’ll be done in another fifteen minutes.”

“Take all the time you need, Haohao.”

Fifteen minutes is a vast underestimation, but Junhui doesn’t voice out a single protest during the hour Minghao spends finishing his work. In fact, he says nothing at all until Minghao announces he’s done with his sketch. At least that’s what Minghao chooses to call it, but the moment he shows the final result to Junhui, he gets chastised for misleading his husband.

“This is not a sketch!” Junhui seizes the paper from him. He brings it closer to his face so he can better inspect it. “It’s an artwork.”

Minghao witnesses it—the spread of crimson across his cheeks, up to the tip of his ears, then down to his neck. “This is… Hao, I’m…” Junhui trails off, unsure of what to say.

“Naked?” Minghao supplies.

He gets a smack on the upper arm for that, but Minghao supposes he deserves it. They made love the night before, which explains Junhui’s state of undress. It was a humid night, and their lovemaking didn’t help cool down the room’s temperature, so Junhui went to sleep without putting any clothes on. Minghao did the same, though he had the opportunity to cover himself when he woke up.

In the sketch—no, the artwork—Junhui is sleeping on his back, his face turned slightly to the side, features relaxed, one arm folded under his head. Dark hairs trail down his body from his navel, growing more abundant as they get closer to the base of his cock, which was curved delicately against his abdomen. Minghao didn’t forget to add the fine details: bruises decorating his skin in the shape of Minghao’s mouth and teeth and palms, red and blue and purple represented in black and white. There’s a particularly dark imprint on his left rib, right where his diaphragm begins, from Minghao’s effort to emblazon his affection onto his husband’s body.

“It’s…” Junhui tries again, and sort of fails, but Minghao is far too in love to care. “I don’t have the words for it.”

“I used this,” he says reveals his card, bringing Junhui’s right hand to rest above his left pectoral.

“ _Bǎobèi_ , I’m not senile. I can see that.” Junhui gives him a gentle pat there and Minghao’s heart does a somersault inside his chest. “Let’s go to town and find a suitable frame for this masterpiece.”

“But the clinic—”

“Can wait for half a day.” He leans in to slot their lips together, kisses Minghao until his lips are buzzing from the exchange, all senses tuned to Junhui’s presence. “The doctor’s busy right now.”

🌙

Time does heal all wounds, but oftentimes scars are left behind. Minghao and Junhui’s, for example, are the faint discolourations on their respective fourth finger, visible only when they're not wearing their rings. The scars remain, but covering them with the golden band proves to be an effective healing salve. They do not itch. They do not hurt. They no longer bleed.

For the most part, they lead a life Junhui had wanted for his reincarnated self to live. They help the keeper take care of the field, two extra sets of hands to plant the seeds and harvest the fruits of their labour. Junhui is in charge of the chickens, Minghao the ducks. Junhui practices medicine during the day, Minghao teaches art to kids in the village for free.

Xuanyi calls him from time to time, only to _ask_ for his help and never _demand_ , so Minghao gives it to her willingly. Sometimes it requires him to leave the house, and for the first couple of times Minghao had this fear that when he came back Junhui wouldn’t be there anymore, but it proved to be an irrational concern. Not only would Junhui stay, but he would also greet Minghao with open arms and a warm homemade meal. 

His father doesn’t call.

“You can go visit him if you want,” says Junhui somewhere to Minghao’s left.

He takes his eyes off the canvas and scans the room for his husband’s figure, eventually finding Junhui standing by the small wooden dresser Minghao made himself.

“Him, who?” he asks, since there was no prompt prior to the permission given.

At his question Junhui’s gaze softens, then he eliminates the distance between them, gifting a kiss to the smiling curve of Minghao’s mouth. His tongue tastes of satisfaction with a dash of relief thrown in there. Minghao chases him back when Junhui withdraws, which makes him laugh openly. What a soothing sound; a bell chime at one’s front porch, welcoming their return home.

“What?” Minghao asks again.

“I love you, Minghao.”

“So do I.”

Junhui thumbs at his cheek. “Did no one’s name passed through your head when I suggested the visit?”

Ah. That’s where his elation came from. Minghao sets aside the thin plywood splattered with paint and circles Junhui’s wrists with his fingers, stroking idly. He’s lived through many different lives now, one with Junhui, another without, then this one, the current one, a time in which their fates are so interwoven, Minghao is living a life _of_ Junhui.

“One did just now,” he acknowledges, “but before you mentioned it, none.”

“You can visit him,” Junhui reiterates once more. “I don’t need to tell you how to behave, yes?” He tips Minghao’s face up, eyes sharp as a blade all of a sudden. “I’m an incredibly selfish man. I want you all to myself, in every aspect possible.”

Minghao’s thumb finds Junhui’s pulse point. Each beat of his heart is a soft upward pressure against the whorls of his fingertip. “Do you want to come with me?”

It’s a kind offer, though mostly extended out of courtesy. In time Minghao has begun to understand again, relearned each string of the familiar ropes that had once become unknown to him. Because of that, he understands his husband’s truths now. Junhui won’t accept the proposal.

“No, I don’t.” Junhui shakes his head. His hands haven’t left Minghao’s face. “I’d much rather stay at home.”

 _Home_.

They exchange knowing smiles. Junhui’s diction was perfectly intentional in nature. Minghao thinks of the different ways he can make love to this man tonight, not as a farewell, rather as a promise to return—for home is where the heart resides, and Junhui has cradled Minghao’s in the palm of his hands since the first time he made Minghao run after him.

“But there’s something I want you to do for me while you’re there.”

He waits.

“There’s a package that needs delivering.”

Minghao’s brows draw together in question. Who in Seoul would Junhui possess a tether to? From what Minghao understands, his husband only ever settled there to make a point. He didn’t turn around _once_ when they left the city hand-in-hand, his entire life packed up in two suitcases Minghao had insisted on carrying, as big a struggle for him that was.

Junhui didn’t even blink. His actions were a perfect echo of the past, of the day Minghao came to whisk him away from the orphanage. There should be nothing left there for Junhui, and yet—

“And the recipient?”

“Kwon Soonyoung,” Junhui’s pulse remains steady under Minghao’s forefinger as the quiet revelation tumbles out from his parted lips. “I have something to give to Kwon Soonyoung.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i planned on finishing this before the new years and i actually did write most of it before then, but i got busy and couldn't edit until now >< well, life certainly makes plans as it wishes. i'm quite happy with where this ended (though i'm sure i will go back and criticise every little fault i can find). the scene of Minghao drawing Junhui was one of the first ones i wrote for this fic, so it being included probably means i didn't stray far off the path i initially envisioned :D
> 
> i hope you guys enjoyed it!!! thank you for subscribing and commenting and being patient with my ass that gets distracted way too easily (i'm like a magpie but instead of picking up shiny things it's just new fic ideas). i have absolutely no idea which konstelasi pair i want to explore next but i've released a flowchart [here](https://twitter.com/blminsmmr/status/1350443891313426435?s=21) and will be happy to take suggestions!!!
> 
> [twt](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24629320/chapters/70596252) | [cc](https://curiouscat.me/bloominsummer)

**Author's Note:**

> [cc](curiouscat.me/bloominsummer)


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